






















































































































































































































































































































GEORGE SAND’S NOVELS. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 



GEORGE SAND’S NOVELS. 


MAUPRAT, 

ANTONIA. 

MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE. 

THE SNOW MAN. 

THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 

THE BAGPIPERS. 

NANON. 

i2mo. Half Russia. French Style. Price, $1.50 each. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers. 





GEORGE SAND 


Miller of Angibau 



ROBERTS BROTHERS 

3 SOMERSET STREET 


BOSTON 

1892 



7Z3 


S2 I 

nu 


3 

doy) 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S71, by 
ROBERTS BROTHERS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


TWO COPltta iVb.0. 





/ 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 







PAGE 

I. 

Introduction . 






1 

II. 

The Journey . 






12 

III. 

The Mendicant 






22 

IV. 

The Morass 






29 

V. 

The Mill . 






34 

VI. 

A Name on a Tree 






40 

VII. 

Blanchemont . 






'51 

VIII. 

The Parvenu Peasant 


. - 




61 

IX. 

An Unexpected Friend 






71 

X. 

Correspondence 






77 

XI. 

Dinner at the Farm 






87 

XII. 

Castles in the Air . 






93 

XIII. 

Rose .... 






101 

XIV. 

Marcelle . 






108 

XV. 

The Rencontre 






119 

XVI. 

Diplomacy . 






126 

XVII. 

The Ford of the Vauvre 





133 

XVIII. 

Henri .... 

• 





142 

XIX. 

A Portrait 

• 





157 

XX. 

Love and Money 

• 





160 

XXI. 

The Mill-boy . 

• 





173 

XXII. 

By the Water-side 

• 





179 

XXIII. 

Cadoche 

• 





189 


(v) 


) 









VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

XXIV. 

The Maniac . 





PAGE 

201 

XXV. 

Sophie .... 





211 

XXVI. 

The Eve of the Fete . 




• 

221 

XXVII. 

The Cabin 




• 

232 

XXVIII. 

The Fete 





241 

XXIX. 

The Two Sisters . 





252 

XXX. 

The Contract 





260 

XXXI. 

An After-thought 




. 

267 

XXXII. 

The Patachon 




• 

274 

XXXIII. 

The Will 





285 

XXXIV. 

Disaster 




. 

296 

XXXV. 

A Kupture 





305 

XXXVI. 

The Chapel . 





312 

XXXVII. 

Conclusion 




. 

315 








CHAPTER I. 


INTRODUCTION. 

f^)NE hour after midnight rang from St. Thomas 
d’Aquin, as a dark, slender figure rapidly glided 
beneath the high and shadowy wall of one of the fine 
gardens still found in Paris, on the left bank of the Seine. 
The night was warm and serene. A delicate fragrance 
breathed from the flowering daturas, which stood in the 
light of the full moon like tall, white spectres. There 
was an air of ancient splendor about the broad flight of 
steps leading up to the Hotel de Blancliemont; and the 
apparent opulence of the mansion, dark and silent as it 
novv rose against the moonlight, was enhanced by the 
extent and beauty of the surrounding garden. 

But the brilliant moonlight was not quite agreeable to 
the young woman in mourning, who took her way, by the 
darkest alleys, to a little door placed at the extremity of 
the wall. Nevertheless, she went resolutely on, for it was 
not the first time she had risked her reputation for the 
sake of a love, always pure, and henceforth legitimate,— 
she had been a widow now for a month. 

She took advantage of a shadowing clump of acacias 
to reach, unperceived, the little private door, which opened 
on a narrow and unfrequented street. Almost at the 
same moment the door turned on its hinges, and the per¬ 
son she had summoned entered softly, and followed his 
mistress, in silence, to a small summer-house. But, as 
soon as the door was closed, the young baroness of 


2 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Blanchemont, from instinctive modesty, taking from her 
pocket a pretty little Russia leather box, drew a match, 
and lighted a candle, which seemed to have been hidden 
beforehand in a corner, while the young man, in a simple, 
timid, and respectful manner, assisted her in dispelling 
the darkness of the room. He was so happy to see her 
again! 

The summer-house was closed with large wooden shut¬ 
ters. It may have been the voluptuous retreat of some 
marquise of the old regime ; but the only furniture and 
light left to the now deserted boudoir consisted of a rustic 
bench, a few empty boxes, some gardening tools, and the 
little taper, with no better candlestick than a broken 
flower-pot. 

Marcelle, the fair descendant of its former occupants, 
was dressed with the simplicity and decorum befitting a 
modest widow. Her only ornament was the beautiful 
golden hair, which fell over her black crape collar. But 
for the delicacy of her alabaster hands, and of her satin- 
slippered foot, which alone betrayed her aristocratic hab¬ 
its, she might have been taken for the natural companion, 
in rank, of the man now kneeling by her side — for a 
Parisian grisette. There are grisettes with brows of 
queenly dignity and of saintly grace. 

Henri Lemor had an agreeable face, but intelligent 
and striking rather than handsome. It was dark and 
pale, and shadowed by abundant black hair. It was 
easy to see that he was a true Parisian — strong through 
will, delicate by organization. His dress, neat and 
modest, betokened humble circumstances; his ill-tied 
cravat showed an entire absence of. foppery, or habitual 
preoccupation of mind; his brown gloves were enough 
to prove that he was not, as the Blanchemont servants 
would have phrased it, a “suitable” man to be the lover 
or husband of their lady. 

These two young people, scarcely older the one than 
the other, had more than once held tender interviews in 
the summer-house during the mysterious hours of night; 
but within a month, that they had not met, deep anxiety 
had darkened the romance of their love. Henri Lemor 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3 


was dismayed and trembling; Marcelle de Blanchemont 
seemed frozen with fear. He knelt before her as if to 
thank her for having granted him a last meeting; but he 
soou rose without speaking, and his manner was con¬ 
strained, and almost cold. 

“At last! ” she made an effort to say, and reached 
him her hand. He carried it to his lips with a convul¬ 
sive movement, but no gleam of joy appeared upon his 
countenance. 

“He loves me no more,” thought she, pressing both 
her hands upon her eyes; and she remained mute, and 
stiffened with dread. 

u At last ? ” repeated Lemor. “ Is it not so soon that 
you would say? I ought to have had strength to wait 
longer. It was wanting — forgive me ! ” 

“ I do not understand you,” said the young widow, 
letting her hands fall dejectedly. 

Lemor saw her tearful eyes, and mistook the cause of 
her emotion. 

“Oh yes!” he resumed; “I am to blame; I see, by 
your grief, the remorse I cause you. These four weeks 
have seemed to me so long, that I had not the courage to 
tell myself they were too few ! Yet I had scarcely writ¬ 
ten to you this morning to ask leave to see you, when I 
repented. I blushed for my own cowardice, I reproached 
myself for the scruples of conscience I was forcing you 
to stifle ; and when I received your calm, sweet answer, 
I saw that you recalled me from pity alone.” 

“ Oh, Henri, how you pain me by speaking so ! Is it 
jest, or pretext? Why ask to see me, if you return 
with so little happiness and confidence?” 

The young man started, and throwing himself again 
at her feet — 

“ I had rather meet your pride and your reproaches,” 
cried he ; “ your kindness kills me ! ” 

“ Henri! Henri! ” cried Marcelle, “ you have, then, 
been false to me? Oh, you do look guilty! You have 
forgotten me, or slighted me — I see it too well! ” 

“ Neither, neither ; to mv eternal grief, I revere you, 


4 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


I adore you, I believe in you as I do in God — I love 
only you on this earth ! ” 

“Ah, well then!” said the young woman, throwing 
her arms around the poor fellow’s dark head, “it is not 
so great a misfortune to love me thus, since I love you in 
the same way. Listen, Henri! I am now free, and I 
have nothing with which to reproach myself. So little 
did I desire the death of my husband, that I have never 
permitted myself to imagine what I would do with my 
liberty, were it restored to me. You know we have never 
spoken of this, you knew that I loved you passionately, 
and yet this is the first time that I have uttered it! But 
how pale you are, my friend ! your hands are icy — you 
seem in great pain ! You frighten me ! ” 

“No, no! speak on, speak on!” answered Lemor, 
yielding to the force of emotions at once most sweet and 
distressing. 

“Well!” continued Mme. de Blanchemont, “it is im¬ 
possible for me to feel the conscientious scruples and dis¬ 
tress which you dread for me. When the bloody corpse 
of my husband, killed in a duel for another woman, was 
brought to me, I own that I was struck with horror and 
consternation ; I believed it my duty, when sending you the 
terrible news, to bid you remain for a certain time absent 
from me ; oh, if it were a crime to feel that time very 
long, I have been sufficiently punished by your scrupulous 
obedience ! But during this month of seclusion, while I 
have been occupied solely with the care of my boy, and 
with doing my utmost to console M. de Blanchemont’s 
parents, I have carefully examined my heart, and I do not 
find it guilty. I could not love that man. He never loved 
me; and all that I could do was to respect his honor. 
Now, Henri, I owe nothing to his memory, but an ex¬ 
ternal respect to decorum. I must see you in secret, and 
seldom, till the end of my mourning; but in a year, in 
two years, if necessary — ” 

“Well, Marcelle ! in two years?” 

“You ask me what we shall be to one another, Henri? 
You love me no longer — I told you so!” 

Henri deserved this reproach too little to be moved by 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


5 

it. Anxiously attentive to every word of his mistress, he 
entreated her to continue. 

“Well,” she resumed, blushing like a young girl, “ do 
you not wish to marry me then, Henri ?” 

Henri let his head sink upon Marcelle’s lap, and re¬ 
mained several moments as if overpowered by joy and 
gratitude ; but he rose abruptly, with a look of the deep¬ 
est despair. 

“ Has not your experience of marriage been sad 
enough?” said he, almost harshly. “Would you place 
yourself again under the yoke?” 

“You frighten me,” said Mme. de Blanchemont, after 
a moment of silent terror. “Are you conscious of tyran¬ 
nical instincts, or is it for yourself that you dread the 
yoke of eternal fidelity?” 

“No no ! it is nothing of the sort,” replied Lemor, in 
a dejected manner. “What I dread, what I cannot en¬ 
dure for myself or for you, you know ; but you will not 
—you cannot understand it. Yet we have often spoken 
of it, before we imagined that such discussions were ever 
to interest us personally, or could contain for me the sen¬ 
tence of life or death ! ” 

“Is it possible, Henri, that you carry fanaticism so 
far ? What! cannot even love conquer it ? Ah! you 
men, how little do you love ! ” added she, with a heavy 
sigh. “ When it is not vice that hardens your souls, it is 
virtue ; and whether base or noble, you love nothing but 
yourselves.” 

“Listen, Marcelle ! if I had asked you a month ago to 
fail in your duty, if my love had implored what your re¬ 
ligion and your principles would have made you consider 
a great and irreparable fault — ” 

“You did not ask me,” said Marcelle, blushing. 

“I loved you too well to ask you to suffer and weep 
for me. But if I had, Marcelle ? ” 

“It is an inconsiderate question,” said she, endeavor¬ 
ing, with amiable coquetry, to elude a reply. 

Her grace and beauty stirred Lemor’s blood. He 
clasped her passionately to his heart; but instantly re¬ 
pressing his excitement, he left her, and walking hurriedly 


6 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


to and fro behind the bench on which she was seated, 
said in an altered voice: 

“And if I asked of you now this sacrifice, which your 
husband’s death would certainly render less terrible — 
less alarming — ” 

Mme. de Blanchemont was again pale and serious. 

“Henri,” she replied, “I should be offended and 
wounded to my heart’s core by such a thought, when I 
have just offered you my hand, and you seem to refuse 
it.” 

“I am indeed unhappy that I, cannot make myself 
understood, and am taken for a villain, when I feel within 
me the very heroism of love! ” answered he, bitterly. 
“You think the phrase ambitious, and are ready to smile 
with pity. Nevertheless it is true, and God knows my 
agony — it is fierce, it passes my courage ! —” 

And Henri burst into tears. 

The young man’s grief was so deep and unfeigned, as 
to terrify Mme. de Blanchemont. These burning tears 
seemed like an invincible refusal of happiness, like an 
eternal farewell to all the illusions of youth and love. 

“ Oh, my dear Henri! ” cried Marcelle, “ what wrong 
can you have resolved to do us both? Why this despair, 
when you are the master of my life, when nothing longer 
prevents our union before God and man? Can my son 
be an obstacle between us? Do you not feel large- 
hearted enough to bestow upon him part of your affec¬ 
tion for me? Do you fear ever having to reproach 
yourself with the misery and desertion of the child of 
my bosom ? ” 

“Your son ! ” cried Henri, sobbing. “ I should have 
a more serious fear than that of not loving him. I should 
fear to love him too well, and that I could not resign my¬ 
self* to seeing his life borne on the current of the time in an 
opposite direction from mine. Custom and opinion would 
command me to leave him to the world, and I should de¬ 
sire to tear him from it, even should I render him unhappy, 
poor, and desolate, with me. No, I could not look upon 
him with enough indifference and selfishness to consent 
that he should grow up like other men of his class— no, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


7 


no ! that, and other things, everything,*n your position 
and mine, is an insurmountable obstacle. From which¬ 
ever side I contemplate such a future, I see nothing but a 
frenzied struggle,— misery for you, anathema upon me ! 
It is impossible, Marcelle, eternally impossible. I love 
you too well to accept sacrifices whose extent you cannot 
measure, and whose results you cannot foresee. I see 
that you do not know me. You take me for a weak and 
vacillating visionary. I am an obstinate and incorrig¬ 
ible visionary. You have sometimes, perhaps, accused 
me of affectation ; you believed that one word of yours 
would bring me back to what you think reason and truth. 
Oh, I am more unfortunate than you imagine, and I love 
you more than you can yet understand. In future — 
yes, in the time to come — you will thank me in your 
deepest thoughts for having chosen to be unhappy alone.” 

“In the future? And why? And when? What do 
you mean ? ” 

“ In the future, I mean, when you awake from this 
dark and evil dream into which I have drawn you, when 
you return to the world, and share its sweet and easy 
pleasures ; when you are no longer an angel, in short, 
and descend again to earth.” 

“Yes, yes, when I am withered by selfishness, aud 
corrupted by flattery ! That is what you would say, that 
is your prophecy for me ! Your stern pride does not 
believe me capable of receiving your thoughts, or of 
comprehending your heart. Say it out,— you do not 
think me worthy of you, Henri! ” 

“These are terrible words, madam, and this struggle 
cannot be longer endured. Let me fly, for we cannot 
understand one another now.” 

“You leave me thus ! ” 

“ No, I do not leave you. I go, far from your pres¬ 
ence, to contemplate you in myself, and to adore you in 
my secret heart. I go to constant suffering, but with the 
hope that you will forget me, with remorse for having 
desired and sought your love, and with the one consola¬ 
tion, at least, of not having basely abused it.” 


8 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Mme. de Blanchemont had risen to prevent Henri from 
going. She fell back, exhausted, upon her bench. 

“ Why, then, did you ask to see me?” inquired she, in 
a cold and offended tone, as he turned away. 

“ Yes, yes,” said he, u you are right to blame me for 
it. It was my last piece of cowardice. I felt it, but 
I yielded to the necessity of seeing you once more. I 
hoped to find you changed toward me: your silence 
made me think you were; I was consumed by sorrow, 
and thought to obtain strength for my cure in your cold¬ 
ness. Why did I come ! Why do you love me ! Am 
I not the coarsest, most ungrateful, savage, and detest¬ 
able of men ? But it is well that you should see me so, 
and know that there is nothing to regret in me. That is 
best; and thus was it not well that 1 came ? ” 

Henri spoke distractedly; his calm, grave features 
were distorted, and his voice, usually sweet and sympa¬ 
thetic, was painfully hard and untoned. Marcelle saw 
his suffering, but her own was so keen that she could say 
and do nothing for their mutual consolation. She sat pale 
and mute, her hands clenched together, and her body 
rigid as marble. Just on the point of leaving, Henri 
turned, and, seeing her thus, flung himself at her feet, 
covering them with tears and kisses. “ Farewell,” said 
he, “loveliest and purest of women, best of friends, no¬ 
blest of lovers ! Mayst thou find a heart worthy of thee, 
a man who shall love thee as I do, and who will bring thee 
a better marriage gift than discouragement and weari¬ 
ness of life! Mayst thou be happy, and bestow happi¬ 
ness, without encountering the struggles of an existence 
like mine! And finally, if there remain in the world 
where thou livest one spark of loyalty and of human 
charity, mayst thou rekindle it with thy divine breath, and 
find grace before God for thy caste and thy generation, 
whom thy perfection alone is sufficient to ransom ! ” 

With these words, Henri rushed out, forgetting that 
he left Marcelle in despair. He seemed like one driven 
by the Furies.. 

Mme. de Blanchemont remained a long time as if 
stunned. When she returned to - her apartments, she paced 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


9 

her chamber slowly till morning, without shedding one 
tear, or disturbing by one sigh the stillness of the night. 

It would be rash to say that this young widow, only 
twenty-two, beautiful, wealthy, and distinguished in 
society for her grace, talents, and intelligence, was not in 
a certain degree mortified and affronted at seeing her 
hand refused by a man without birth, fortune, or reputa¬ 
tion. Offended feminine pride probably sustained her at 
first. But the true nobility of her sentiments soon sug¬ 
gested more serious reflections, and for the first time she 
looked deeply into her own life, and into the general life 
of those about her. She recalled all that Lemor had 
said to her in former days, when the only connection 
possible between them was that of hopeless love. She 
was astonished that she had not been more seriously im¬ 
pressed by the austerity of his opinions, and had let them 
pass as romantic fancies. She began to estimate him 
with the calmness attained by a strong and generous de¬ 
termination, even amidst violent emotion. As the hours 
of the night passed on, and were echoed by the clear and 
silvery voices of the distant steeples through the silence 
of the great sleeping city, Marcelle arrived at that clear¬ 
ness of perception which sorrow draws from the medita¬ 
tions of long watchfulness. Educated with different 
views from Lemor, she had, nevertheless, been as it 
were predestined to share the love of this plebeian, and 
to find it her shelter from all the languor and weariness 
of aristocratic life. Hers was one of those strong and 
loving souls to whom self-sacrifice is a necessity, and who 
imagine no other happiness than that they give. Unhappy 
at home, weary of society, she had yielded with a girl’s 
romantic confidence to a sentiment which had soon become 
sacred to her. Sincerely religious in her youth, it was in¬ 
evitable that she should be passionately attached to a lover 
who respected her scruples and worshipped her purity. 
She was impelled by her very piety to heighten her love, 
and to desire to consecrate it by indissoluble bonds the 
moment she found herself free. She had thought with 
joy of bravely sacrificing those external advantages 
which are valued by the world, and the narrow preju- 


IO 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


dices of birth, by which her own judgment had never 
been misled. The poor child thought to do a great thing, 
and it was really great, for the world would have laughed 
or blamed. She had not foreseen that all this was yet 
as nought, and that the pride of the plebeian would repel 
her sacrifice almost as an affront. 

Suddenly enlightened by the dismay, the grief, aud the 
resistance of Lemor, Marcelle revolved in her perturbed 
mind all that she had dimly seen of the social crisis of 
the age. The high regions of thought are no longer un¬ 
familiar to the women of our time. All, according to 
the rate of their intelligence, can henceforth, without 
affectation on their own part, or ridicule on that of others, 
read daily, under all its forms, newspaper or romance, 
philosophy, politics, or poetry, official statement or inti- 
’mate conversation, the great book of actual life, sad, 
diffuse, contradictory, yet always full of depth and sig¬ 
nificance. Thus she well knew, as we all do, that this 
diseased and benumbed Present is at war with the Past, 
which holds it back, and the Future, which beckons it on. 
She saw sharp lightnings dart over her head, she felt the 
approach, sooner or later, of a great struggle. Her na¬ 
ture was not cowardly; she neither feared, nor closed 
her eyes. The regrets, complaints, terrors, and recrim¬ 
inations of her noble relations had wearied and disgusted 
her with fear. Youth will not belie the season of its 
bloom, and holds its sweet summer dear, though laden with 
storms ! The affectionate and courageous Marcelle felt 
that, while with the being she loved, she could smile in 
the wildest tempest, and under the lowliest shelter. The 
threatening strife of external interests appeared to her as 
nothing. u Of what consequence are ruin, exile, and 
imprisonment ? ” thought she, when those who were 
deemed fortunate trembled around her. u They can 
never exile love; and as for me, thanks to Heaven, I 
love a poor man who will be unmolested.” 

But it had not occurred to her that she might be stricken 
in her very affections by this obscure and mysterious war, 
which exists in defiance of all official restraint and appar¬ 
ent discouragement. This conflict of feeling and opinion 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


II 


is now thoroughly opened, and Marcelle saw her illu¬ 
sions drop from her as suddenly as if she had awakened 
from a dream. War, moral and intellectual, is declared 
between the different classes imbued with opposite beliefs 
and passions, and Mme. de Blanchemont found, in the man 
who adored her, a sort of irreconcilable enemy. Shocked 
at first by the discovery, she familiarized herself gradually 
with the idea, which suggested to her new designs still 
more romantic and generous than those which had sus¬ 
tained her during the past month, and at the end of her 
long walk through her silent and deserted rooms, she 
found composure in a resolution which perhaps no one 
but herself could regard without a smile of admiration or 
of pity. 

This took place quite recently — it may be last year.* 


♦This novel was published in 1846. — Tr. 


12 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE JOURNEY. 



kRCELLE having married her cousin-german, bore 
the name of Blancliemont both before and after her 


marriage, and the estate and chateau of Blanchemont 
made part of her patrimony. The estate was valuable, 
but the chateau was no longer inhabited, even by the 
tenants to whom it had been abandoned for more than 
two hundred years, because it was much decayed, and 
would have cost too much in repairs. Mile, de Blanche¬ 
mont, early left an orphan, brought up in a Parisian 
convent, married very young, and, not initiated by her 
husband into the management of her affairs, had never 
seen this, her ancestral domain. Resolved to quit Paris, 
and to seek in the country a mode of life in accordance 
with her new projects, she -chose Blanchemont as the 
commencement of her pilgrimage, with the intention 
of establishing herself in this residence, if it met her 
purpose. She was aware of the dilapidated state of her 
chateau, and this was one reason why she looked toward 
it in preference. The embarrassment and disorder in 
which her husband had left all her affairs and his own, 
served her as pretext for undertaking a journey, of which 
she spoke as only to last some weeks, but to which, in 
her secret thought, she assigned no precise object or term ; 
her own real design being to quit Paris, and the manner 
of life to which she was there compelled. 

Fortunately for her plans, there was no member of her 
family who could easily accompany her. She was an 
only child, and not troubled by the protection of elder 
brothers or sisters. Her husband’s parents were aged, 
and as they were somewhat alarmed at the debt left by 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


their son, which could be paid off only by excellent man¬ 
agement, they were at once astonished and delighted to 
see a woman of twenty-two, who had hitherto shown no 
taste or aptitude for business, determine to arrange her 
own, and go to see for herself into the state of her prop¬ 
erty. Still they made several objections to her starting 
alone with her child. They wished that she should be 
attended by her man of business. They feared lest the 
child should suffer from a journey in such hot weather. 
Marcelle replied to her father and mother-in-law that a 
prolonged tete-a-tete with an old lawyer would not ex¬ 
actly alleviate the burden she was about to take upon 
herself; that she should obtain more direct information 
and advice better adapted to the locality, from the pro¬ 
vincial advocates and notaries; in fine, that there was 
nothing so very difficult in settling accounts with tenants, 
and renewing leases. As to the child, the air of Paris 
enfeebled him more and more. The country, exercise, 
and sunshine would do him only good. And then Mar¬ 
celle, grown suddenly adroit in overcoming the obstacles 
which she had foreseen and considered during her vigil 
related in the preceding chapter, laid stress upon her 
duty as guardian of her son. She was still in partial ig¬ 
norance of the condition of M. de Blanchemont’s estate, 
she said, and knew not whether he had drawn largely in 
advance upon his agents, or given heavy mortgages upon 
his lands, etc. All these things it was her duty to examine, 
and make a personal investigation, that she might know 
how to arrange her future establishment without com¬ 
promising her boy’s interests. She talked so wisely of 
these interests, of which in reality she thought very little, 
that at the end of twelve hours she had carried the day, 
and brought all the family to approve and praise her res¬ 
olution. Her love for Henri had remained so secret, that 
no suspicion of it disturbed the confidence of the grand¬ 
parents. 

Sustained by unaccustomed activity and enthusiastic 
hope, Marcelle slept little better the night following that 
of her interview with Lemor. She had strange dreams, 
now cheerful, now sad. At last, awaking with the dawn, 


H 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


she cast a thoughtful look around her apartment, and was 
struck, for the first time, with the useless and extrav¬ 
agant luxury displayed about her, with the satin hang¬ 
ings, the extreme ease and softness of the furniture, the 
number of expensive trifles and costly toys ; in short, the 
whole array of gilding, china, carved wood, and frippery 
which now crowds the house of a fine lady. “ I should 
like to know,” thought she, u why we have such contempt 
for women of the town. They make others give them 
what we are able to give ourselves. They sacrifice their 
modesty to the possession of things which should have 
no value in the eyes of thoughtful and serious women, 
and which we, nevertheless, regard as indispensable. 
They have tastes like ours, and it is to appear as rich 
and fortunate as we that they degrade themselves. We 
should give them the example of severe simplicity in our 
lives, before condemning them. And if our indissoluble 
marriages were compared with their transient unions, 
would there be found much more disinterestedness among 
the young girls of our class? Would there not be seen 
as often among us, as with them, a child bound to an old 
man, beauty profaned by the ugliness of vice, and intel¬ 
lect subjected to imbecility, all for love of a set of dia¬ 
monds, a carriage, and an opera-box ? Unhappy women ! 
They say you also despise us, and well you may ! ” 
Meanwhile, the pale, clear light which penetrated the 
curtains, showed all the enchantment of the sanctuary, 
which, in former times, Mme. de Blanchemont had pleased 
herself in decorating with exquisite taste. She had almost 
always lived apart from her husband, and this retired 
and beautiful chamber, into which Henri himself had 
never dared penetrate, was endeared to her only by sweet 
and pensive recollections. It was here that, flying from 
the world, she had read and meditated amid the perfume 
of flowers of unequalled beauty, — flowers such as are 
found only in Paris, and which now form part of the 
daily life of the wealthy. She had made this retreat as 
poetic as she could. She had adorned and beautified it 
lor herself; she was attached to it as a mysterious 
refuge, where the sorrows of her life, and the passionate 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


'5 


storms of her spirit, had always been soothed by medita¬ 
tion and prayer. She gazed around it long and affection¬ 
ately, and then pronounced in her heart an eternal 
farewell to all these silent witnesses of her inner life,— 
a life concealed like that of the flower, whose stainless 
beauty could endure the broadest sunlight, but which 
bows its head beneath the foliage, for love of the shade 
and coolness. “ My chosen retreat, my beloved orna¬ 
ments, you have been dear to me,” thought she ; “ but I 
can love you no longer, for you belong to wealth and indo¬ 
lence, and help to consecrate them. You typify to me, 
henceforth, all that divides me from Henri, and I could 
not look upon you without disgust and bitterness of heart. 
Let us part before we hate. Thou, stern Madonna, 
wouldst cease to protect me ; clear and deep mirrors, you 
would make me detest my own image ; and you, beau¬ 
tiful flower-vases, would have for me neither grace nor 
fragrance! ” 

Then, before writing, as she had resolved, to Ilenri, 
she went softly to see and bless the sleep of her child. 
The sight of the pale boy, whose precocious intellect had 
been developed at the expense of his bodily strength, 
passionately moved her. She spoke to him in her heart, 
as if, in his slumber, he could have heard and under¬ 
stood her maternal thought. “ Be calm,” she said to 
him, “ I do not love him more than thee. Be not jealous. 
Were he not the best and noblest of men, I would not 
give him to thee for a father. Yes, little angel, thou art 
warmly and faithfully loved. Sleep on, we will never 
forsake thee! ” 

All bathed with delicious tears, Marcelle returned to 
her chamber, and wrote these few lines to Lemor: 

“You are right, and I understand you. I am not 
worthy of you, but I shall become so, for I am resolved 
upon it. I am starting on a long journey. Do not be 
troubled about me, and continue to love me. In a year 
from to-day you shall receive a letter from me. Arrange 
your affairs so as to be free to come whenever I shall 
call you. If you do not find me sufficiently converted, 
you shall give me another year, — a year, two years, 


16 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 

with hope, is almost happiness for two creatures who 
have loved hopelessly so long.” 

She sent this note very early. But M. Lemor was 
not to be found. He had gone away the evening before, 
no one knew where, or for how long. But it was certain 
that he would have the note, because one of his friends 
was charged to come every day to the modest lodging he 
had occupied, to receive and send to him any letters that 
might come. 

Two days later, Mme. de Blanchemont, with her son, 
a maid, and a man-servant, were travelling by post 
through the wastes of La Sologne. 

At eighty leagues from Paris the traveller found her¬ 
self nearly in the centre of France, and stopped for the 
night in the town nearest in that direction to Blanche¬ 
mont, which was still five or six leagues distant. In these 
central parts of the kingdom, notwithstanding all the new 
roads opened within a few years, there is so little commu¬ 
nication between the different country places, that at a 
short distance it is difficult to obtain from the inhabitants 
any distinct information concerning a neighboring estate. 
All know very well the way to the town, or to the foreign 
district where their business occasionally calls them. But 
ask in a village the way to a farm a league beyond, and it 
is ten to one that nobody can tell you. There are so many 
ways ! and they all look alike. Mme. de Blanchemont’s 
servants were up early to prepare for their mistress’s de¬ 
parture, but could obtain neither from the inn-keeper, his 
people, or the country travellers who happened to be there, 
and were still half asleep, any light upon the subject of 
Blanchemont. No one knew exactly where it was. One 
came from Montlu^on, another knew Chateau Meillant; 
all had crossed Ardentes and La Chatre a hundred times, 
but of Blanchemont they knew only the name. 

“ It is a good estate,” said one ; u I know the farmer, 
but I never was there ; it is a great way from us — four 
long leagues at least.” 

“ Faith ! ” said another, “ I saw the Blanchemont cattle 
at Berthenoux Fair only last year, and I spoke to M. Bri- 
colin, the farmer, just as I speak to you now. Oh yes, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


1 7 

yes ! I know Blanchemont, but I don’t know which way 
it lies from here.” 

The bar-maid, like all bar-maids, knew nothing of the 
neighborhood. Like all bar-maids, she was new to the 
place. 

The waiting-maid and man, accustomed to attend their 
mistress to superb residences known for twenty leagues 
round, and situated in civilized countries, began to think 
themselves in the depths of Sahara. Their faces elon¬ 
gated, and their pride was cruelly hurt at having to ask 
in vain the way to the chateau they were about to honor 
with their presence. 

“ Is it a hovel, or a den, then?” said Suzette, disdain¬ 
fully, to Lapierre. 

“It is the palace of Corybantes,” replied Lapierre, 
who had admired in his youth a favorite melo-drama called 
the Castle of Corisanda, and who applied the name, some¬ 
what distorted, to every ruin he met. 

At last, a bright idea struck the stable-boy. 

“ I have a man up there in the hay-loft,” said he, “ who 
will tell you, for it is his business to drive through the 
country day and night. It is Grand-Louis, otherwise 
called the tall miller.” 

“Go fetch the tall miller,” said Lapierre, majestically ; “it 
appears that his sleeping-apartment is at the ladder’s end.” 

The tall miller descended from his loft, stretching, and 
cracking the joints of his large arms and legs. Seeing 
his athletic form and resolute face, Lapierre came down 
from his facetious tone of grandeur, and politely ques¬ 
tioned him. The miller was certainly well informed, but 
from the revelations which he made, Suzette judged it 
necessary to bring him to Mme. de Blanchemont, who 
was taking her chocolate in the dining-room with little 
Edward, and who, far from sharing the dismay of her 
people, was rejoiced to learn from them that Blanchemont 
was a lost and almost undiscoverable country. 

The specimen of the soil who presented himself at this 
instant before her, was five feet eight inches in height, a 
remarkable stature in a country where the men are gen¬ 
erally diminutive. He was robust in proportion, well- 
2 


iS 


THE MILLER OF ANG/BAULT. 


made, easy, and of a striking countenance. The girls of 
his neighborhood called him the handsome miller, and 
this epithet was as well deserved as the other. When he 
wiped away with the back of his sleeve the flour which 
usually covered his cheeks, he discovered a brown, ani¬ 
mated, and beautifully toned complexion. His features 
were regular, strongly cut like his limbs, his eyes blue 
and deep-set, his teeth of dazzling whiteness, and his long 
chestnut hair, close-curled like that of a very strong man, 
framed squarely a broad and full forehead, which told 
rather of acuteness and good sense than of poetic ideality. 
He was dressed in a blouse of coarse blue, and gray linen 
pantaloons. He wore no stockings, great hob-nailed 
shoes, and carried a heavy stick of mountain-ash, termi¬ 
nated by a knot of the branch, so as to make a sort of club. 

He entered with assurance which might have been taken 
for effrontery, if the mildness of his light blue eyes, and 
the smile of his large vermilion mouth, had not testified 
that frankness, goodness, and a sort of philosophic non¬ 
chalance, were at the foundation of his character. 

“ At your service, madam,” said he, raising his wide- 
brimmed hat of gray felt, but without exactly removing it 
from his head ; for, just as the old-fashioned peasant is 
obsequious, and disposed to salute every one better dressed 
than himself, so are those who date from after the Revo¬ 
lution remarkable for the adherence of their head-gear 
to their hair. U I am told that you wish to know of me 
the way to Blanchemont ? ” 

The loud and sonorous voice of the tall miller startled 
Marcelle, who had not seen him enter. She turned 
quickly, surprised, at first, by his bluntness. But such is 
the privilege of beauty, that, on a mutual examination, 
the young miller and the young lady presently forgot the 
sort of mistrust always inspired at first by a difference in 
rank. Only Marcelle, seeing him disposed to be familiar, 
thought proper to remind him, by exceeding politeness, 
of the regard due to her sex. 

“ I am much obliged to you for your kindness,” said 
she, bowing to him, “ and I pray you, sir, to be good 
enough to tell me if there is a tolerable carriage-road 
from here to the farm of Blanchemont.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


9 


The tall miller, without being invited, had already taken 
a chair to seat himself, but on hearing himself called Sir , 
his fine natural perception told him that he was speaking 
with a person of native sweetness and dignity. Without 
any embarrassment, he quietly took off his hat, and rest¬ 
ing his hands on the back of the chair, as if to assure 
himself— 

44 There is a cross-road, not very smooth,” said he, 
44 but you will not overturn if you take care ; you need 
only to follow it, and not take another. I will explain 
that to your postilion. But the surest way will be to 
take a patache here, for the Black Valley is worse than 
usual, on account of the late rain-storms, aod I do not be¬ 
lieve that your little carriage-wheels would ever come out 
of the ruts. It might be, but I would not answer for it.” 

44 I see that your ruts are no joke, and that it will be 
most prudent to take your advice. You are sure that I 
shall not overturn in a patache ? ” 

44 Oh ! do not be afraid, madam.” 

44 I am not afraid for myself, but for this little child. 
That is what makes me prudent.” 

44 Indeed then it would be a pity to break these little 
bones,” said the tall miller, going up to Edward with a 
look of cordial kindness. 44 What a cunning, pretty little 
man it is ! ” 

44 Very slender, is he not?” said Marcelle, smiling. 

44 Faith ! not strong, but pretty as a girl. And so you 
are coming down to our country, sir ? ” 

44 Ho ! how tall he is ! ” cried Edward, catching hold 
of Grand-Louis, who had bent towards him. 44 Make 
me touch the ceiling! ” 

The miller took the child, and, lifting him above his 
head, carried him along the blackened cornice of the 
room. 

44 Take care ! ” said Mme. de Blanchemont, somewhat 
alarmed by the freedom with which the rustic Hercules 
handled her child. 

44 Oh! don’t fear,” answered Grand-Louis. 44 1 had 
rather break all the alochons of my mill, than one of this 
gentleman’s fingers.” 


20 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


The word alocJion delighted the boy, who repeated 
it laughing, but without understanding its meaning. 

“You do not know what that is?” said the miller. 
“ They are the little wings — the bits of wood — which 
ride on the wheel, and which the water pushes to make 
it turn. I will show you how, if you ever come where 
I live.” 

“ Yes, yes — alochon ! ” cried the child, bursting into 
a laugh, and turning a somerset in the miller’s arms. 

“ Is the little rogue making fun of me ? ” said Grand- 
Louis, replacing him in his chair. “Well, madam, I 
must go to my business. Have I done all I can 
for you ? ” 

“Yes, my friend,” replied Marcelle, forgetting her 
reserve in her kind feeling. 

“ Oh, I ask no better than to be your friend,” gayly 
returned the miller, with a look which expressed that, 
from a person less young and beautiful, this familiarity 
would not have gratified him. 

“ Very well,” thought Marcelle, with a blush and a 
smile ; “I shall take the warning. Farewell, sir,” she 
added aloud, “ till we meet again, for you doubtless live 
at Blanchemont?” 

“ Very near. I am the Miller of Angibault, one league 
from your chateau; for I understand that you are the 
lady of Blanchemont? ” 

Marcelle had forbidden her people to betray her incog¬ 
nito. She desired to come unobserved to the country; 
but she saw plainly, by the manner of the miller, that 
her rauk as proprietor did not make as much sensation 
as she had feared. An absentee proprietor is a stranger 
for whom nobody cares. The farmer who represents 
him, and transacts his affairs, is quite another personage. 

Notwithstanding her intention to start early, and arrive 
at Blanchemont before the noonday heats, Marcelle was 
forced to pass most of the day at this inn. Every 
patache of the town was in the country, on account of a 
great fair in the neighborhood, and it was necessary to 
await the return of the first. It was not till near three 
in the afternoon that Suzette came to inform her mis- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


21 


tress, in a lamentable voice, that a sort of willow basket, 
horrible and shameful, was the only vehicle yet at her 
disposal. 

To the great astonishment of the wondering maid, 
Mine, de Blanchemont did not hesitate to make use of it. 
Taking a few necessary articles, she gave the keys of her 
carriage and trunks to the innkeeper, and set off in the 
classic pcitache — which respectable testimony to the sim¬ 
plicity of our fathers is daily becoming more rare, even 
on the roads of the Black Valley. That which Marcelle 
was unlucky enough to find was of the purest indigenous 
construction, and an antiquary would have contemplated 
it with respect. It was long and low, like a coffin ; no 
manner of springs varied its motions ; the wheels, as 
high as the top, were prepared to brave the muddy 
trenches which furrow our cross-roads, and which the 
miller, doubtless through national vanity, was pleased to 
denominate ruts ; finally, the top itself was woven only 
of osier, and comfortably lined with coarse cloth and 
dried mud, of which latter every good jolt detached frag¬ 
ments upon the travellers’ heads. A little, lean, and 
fiery stallion rattled along with this rustic car; and the 
patachon , or driver, sitting sideways on the shaft, his 
legs hanging — inasmuch as our fathers found it more 
convenient to bring a chair to help them climb into their 
carriages than to twist their feet on a step — was the 
least crowded and least endangered of the passengers. 

The journey was, nevertheless, endurable while it was 
possible to keep to the high road. The patachon was a 
lad of fifteen, red-headed, flat-nosed, forward, sticking at 
nothin"—not hesitating to urge on his horse with all the 
oaths of his rich vocabulary, without respect to the pres¬ 
ence of ladies — and pleasing himself with exhausting 
the ardor of the courageous pony, who never in his life 
had tasted oats, and who was put into capital spirits by 
the mere sight of the green fields ; but when these were 
succeeded by a barren wilderness, he lowered his head 
— more in anger than in sorrow — and dragged the 
carriage furiously over rough and smooth, in a manner 
absolutely cruel to the occupants. 


22 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MENDICANT. 

TT was far worse when they left the sands to descend 
■*- into the heavy clay soil of the Black Valley. From the 
edge of the sterile upland, Mme. de Blanchemont had ad¬ 
mired the vast and beautiful landscape, which was unrolled 
from her feet to the horizon in many-wooded zones of pale 
violet color, cut by golden bands from the rays of the set¬ 
ting sun. There are no more charming situations in 
France. Yet the vegetation is not in itself remarkably 
vigorous. No great river furrows these plains, and no 
slated roofs reflect the sun. There are no picturesque 
mountains, nothing is striking, nothing extraordinary in 
this quiet scenery, but, from the heights of Labreuil or 
Corlay, a single glance takes in a noble succession of 
cultivated estates, and an endless parcelling out of fields, 
meadows, coppice, and broad commons, which give va¬ 
riety of form and color, blended in one general harmony 
of dark verdure shading into blue. It is a rich confusion 
of ample enclosures, orchard-hidden cabins, curtaining 
poplars, and low-lying bushy pastures ; while, upon the 
table-lands, paler fields and brighter hedges relieve the 
neighboring masses, and the whole country, for fifty 
leagues round, presents a character of peculiar and har¬ 
monious grace. 

But this magnificent panorama was soon lost from the 
sight of our traveller. Once involved in the windings 
of the Black Valley, the scene changes. By turns de¬ 
scending and ascending roads bordered by high thickets, 
you skirt no precipices, but these roads are themselves 
precipices. The sun, sinking behind the trees, gives 
them a peculiar appearance, singularly wild and graceful. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 5 


There are mysterious caves beneath their dark shadows, 
watercourses of emerald green leading to stagnant pools 
or pathless morasses, steep descents impossible for a car¬ 
riage to reascend, and, in tine, continual enchantment for 
the imagination, and real danger for those who ventu¬ 
rously assay otherwise than on foot, or at least on horse¬ 
back, these enticing, uncertain, and treacherous by-ways. 

While the sun was above the horizon, the red-haired 
charioteer made out very well. He followed the track 
most travelled, and consequently most rough, but also the 
safest. He crossed two or three brooks by observing the 
marks of cart-wheels on their banks. But when the sun 
had set, the darkness came on rapidly in these hollow 
ways, and the last peasant whom they addressed an¬ 
swered carelessly: 

“ Go on ! go on ! you have only a short league more, 
and the road is all good.” 

Now this Avas the sixth peasant who, within about two 
hours, had stated that there was only a short league more, 
and this good road was such that the horse was exhausted, 
and the travellers at the end of their patience. Marcelle 
herself began to fear an overturn ; for if the patachon and 
his nag needed all their skill to choose their passage in 
broad day, it was impossible that in dark night they 
should avoid the false opeuings which the unequal nature 
of the ground renders as dangerous as picturesque, and 
which are liable to sudden terminations, exposing you to 
a fall of ten or twelve perpendicular feet. The lad had 
never penetrated so far into the Black Valley; he lost 
patience, and swore furiously every time that he was 
forced to retrace his steps to recover the way; he com¬ 
plained of thirst, of hunger, groaned over the fatigue of 
his horse, beating him unmercifully meanwhile, and 
cursed the savage country and its stupid inhabitants, w T ith 
all the airs of a little cockney. 

More than once, seeing the road steep, but dry, Mar¬ 
celle and her servants alighted ; but they could not walk 
five minutes without coming to a hollow where the road 
narrowed, and w r as entirely occupied by stagnant springs 
on the level of the ground, forming a liquid mud impos- 


2 4 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


sible for a delicate woman to pass on foot. The Parisian 
Suzette had rather be overturned, she said, than leave her 
shoes in these sloughs ; and Lapierre, who had passed his 
life in pumps upon polished floors, was so awkward and 
confused, that Mme. de Blanchemont dared not let him 
carry her son. 

The usual answer of the peasant, when asked the way, 
is, u Go straight on, always straight on.” This is simply 
a joke — a sort of pun — which means that you are to walk 
straight on your legs ; for there is not a straight road in 
the Black Valley. The numerous ravines made by the 
Indre, the Vauvre, the Couarde, the Gourdon, and a 
hundred lesser streams which take different names in their 
course, and have never borne the yoke of any bridge or 
dike, force you to a thousand turns to find a fordable 
place, so that you are often obliged to turn your back 
upon the spot you wish to reach. 

When they came to an angle of the road surmounted 
by a cross — a sinister locality always peopled by the 
peasant imagination with demons, sorcerers, and fantastic 
animals — our embarrassed travellers addressed them¬ 
selves to a beggar, who, seated upon the death-stone,* 
cried to them in a monotonous voice, “ Charitable souls, 
have pity on a miserable creature ! ” 

The great stature of this man, wdio was very old, but 
still robust, and armed with an enormous stick, was not 
very encouraging in case .of a single combat. His stern 
features could not be well distinguished, but there was 
something more imperious than suppliant in the inflection 
of his harsh voice. His melancholy attitude and his 
filthy rags contrasted with the sense of humor which had 
made him put an old bouquet and a faded ribbon on his 
hat. 

“ Friend,” said Marcelle, giving him a piece of money, 
“ show us the way to Blanchemont, if you know it.” 

Instead of replying, the beggar gravely continued to 
repeat aloud an Ave Maria in Latin, which he had begun 
for his own benefit. 

* A hollow stone, in which each passing funeral leaves, at the 
foot of the cross, a small cross rudely cut in wood. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 5 


“Answer,” said Lapierre to him; “you can mumble 
your Pater Nosters afterwards.” 

The beggar turned his head scornfully toward the foot¬ 
man, and continued his prayers. 

“Don’t speak to that man,” said the patachon ; “ he is 
an old beggar tramp, and never knows where he is going. 
You meet him everywhere, and nowhere in his senses.” 

“The road to Blanchemont?” said the mendicant, when 
he had at last finished his prayer; “ you are not on it, 
my children ; you must turn, and take the first to the 
right.” 

“Are you sure of it?” said Marcelle. 

“ I have been there more than six hundred times. If 
you do not believe me, do as you will; it is all the same 
to me.” 

“ He seems to know what, he is about,” said Marcelle 
to her driver. “ Let us attend to him; what reason 
should he have to deceive us ? ” 

“ Bah ! the pleasure of doing harm,” replied the anx¬ 
ious patachon. “ I don’t trust this man.” 

Marcelle insisted upon following the advice of the beg¬ 
gar, and soon the patache plunged into a narrow gully, 
winding, and prodigiously steep. “ I say,” resumed the 
swearing patafchon, while his horse stumbled at every step, 
“ that this old cheat sent us wrong.” 

“ Go on,” said Marcelle, “since there is no way to go 
back.” 

The farther they advanced, the more impassable became 
the road, but it was too narrow to turn the vehicle ; two 
splendid hedges confined it closely. After performing 
miracles of strength and endurance, the little nag arrived 
at the bottom, under a clump of old oaks which appeared 
to be on the border of a wood. The road suddenly 
widened opposite a great pool of standing water, not in 
the least resembling the ford of a river. The patachon, 
nevertheless, plunged in, but when half across he sunk so 
deep that he would fain have turned. It was the last ef¬ 
fort of his meagre Bucephalus. The wheels sank to the 
hub, and the animal fell, breaking the shafts. It was 
necessary to unharness him. Lapierre stepped into the 


26 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


water up to liis knees, groaning like a man at point of 
death ; but when he had helped the patachon to free the 
horse, all their efforts were useless (neither of them was 
strong) to raise the carriage. Then the patachon sprung 
nimbly on his beast, and cursing the beggar for a wizard, 
aud swearing by all the devils below, he went off at full 
trot, promising to go for help, but in a tone which fore¬ 
told that it would be no weight on his conscience to leave 
his passengers in the swamp till morning. 

The patache had not been overturned. Carelessly tip¬ 
ped sideways in the marsh, it was still very habitable, and 
Marcelle arranged herself upon the back seat with her 
child lying in her lap, that he might sleep comfortably, for 
Edward had long since asked for his supper and bed, and, 
having appeased his hunger on some cakes from Suzette’s 
pocket, he needed no entreaty to begin his nap. Mme. de 
Blanchemont, judging that her small driver would not 
hurry himself to return if he found a good resting-place, 
desired Lapierre to go and see if he could not discover 
some cabin near by. They are so deep buried under 
foliage, and so silent and tightly closed after sunset, that 
one must touch them to see them, and take them by as¬ 
sault to find hospitality at that unaccustomed hour. Old 
Lapierre had but one anxiety — to find a fire to dry his 
feet and keep off the rheumatism — and needed no urging 
to leave the morass, after having assured himself that the 
patache, leaning against the prostrate trunk of an old wil¬ 
low, was in no danger of sinking deeper. 

The most forlorn of the party was Suzette, who was 
horribly afraid of robbers, wolves, and snakes ; three 
pests unknown in the Black Valley, but which are never 
out of the mind of a lady’s maid on a journey. Mean¬ 
while the easy composure of her mistress prevented her 
from yielding aloud to her terror; and nestling, as best 
1 she could, upon the front seat, she betook herself to silent 
weeping. 

“ What is the matter, Suzette?” asked Marcelle, when 
she perceived it. 

“ Ah ! madam,” replied she, sobbing, “do not you hear 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


27 

the frogs sing? They will come upon us, and fill the 
carriage — ” 

“And eat us up, doubtless,” returned Mine, de Blanche- 
mont, laughing outright. 

In reality, the green dwellers in the morass, disturbed 
for an instant by the fall of the horse and the clamor of 
the driver, had resumed their monotonous psalmody. 
Dogs were also heard to bay and howl, but from such a 
distance that they gave no reason to count upon prompt 
assistance. The moon had not yet risen, but the stars 
shone on the stagnant water of the marsh, which had 
again become smooth. A soft breeze crept through the 
tall reeds that grew in thick tufts on the bank. 

u Come, Suzette,” said Marcelle, who had already 
yielded herself to a poetic revery, “ one is not so badly 
off as I thought in a swamp, and, if you choose, you will 
sleep as if you were in your bed.” 

“ My lady must have lost her senses,” thought Suzette, 
“ to think herself well off in such a situation. O heaven, 
madam ! ” she cried, after a moment’s silence, “ it seems 
to me I hear a wolf howl! Are we not in the midst of 
a forest ? ” 

“The forest is only a willow swamp, I believe,” re¬ 
plied Marcelle, “ and as for the wolf you hear howl, it is 
a man singing. If he would come our way he might help 
us to reach firm land.” 

“ And if it is a robber? ” 

“ In that case it is a kindly robber, who sings to warn 
us to take care. Listen, Suzette ! without jesting, he is 
coming here ; the voice is nearer.” 

In reality, a voice, full, manly, and harmonious, although 
rough and untaught, came over the silent fields, with the 
measured accompaniment of the slow and regular step of 
a horse ; but this voice was still far off, and there was no 
certainty that the singer was taking the direction of the 
swamp, which might be entirely impassable. When the 
song was ended, whether it were that the horse trod on 
the turf, or that the rider had turned another way, noth¬ 
ing more was heard. 

At this moment Suzette, whose terrors were renewed, 


23 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


saw a silent figure glide along the pool. Reflected in the 
water, it appeared gigantic. She gave a cry, and the 
figure, plunging into the marsh, came straight toward the 
patache, though slowly, and with precaution. 

“ Do not be afraid, Suzette,” said Mme. de Blanche- 
mont, herself now a little uneasy. “ It is the old beggar 
we saw this afternoon. Perhaps he will show us a house 
from which we can obtain help. Friend,” said she, with 
much presence of mind, “my servant, over there, will go 
with you if you will show him the way to some house.” 

“Thy servant, little one?” answered the mendicant, 
familiarly. “ He is not there; he is far off. And be¬ 
sides, he is so old, so weak, and stupid, that he could not 
help thee here.” 

For once, Marcelle was frightened. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2Q 


CHAPTER IV 


THE MORASS. 



HIS answer sounded like the rude threat of an ill- 


A iutentioned person. Marcelle seized Edward in her 
arms, resolute to defend him at the price of her life, if 
necessary, and she was about to leap into the water on 
the opposite side from that by which the beggar was ap¬ 
proaching, when the rustic chant before heard was re¬ 
sumed in a second couplet, and this time at very little 
distance. The beggar stopped. 

“ We are lost! ” murmured Suzette. “There is the 
rest of the band coming.” 

“We are saved, on the contrary,” answered Marcelle. 
“ That is an honest peasant’s voice.” 

In truth, the voice was full of cheerful assurance, and 
the calm, clear song evidently came from a good con¬ 
science. The horse’s step also came nearer. The coun¬ 
tryman was evidently descending the path leading to the 
morass. 

The mendicant drew back to the edge, and remained 
motionless, seeming to show more prudence than fear. 

Marcelle leaned out of the patache to call the rider; 
but he sang too loudly to hear her, and if his horse, fright¬ 
ened at the sight of the black mass that the patache pre¬ 
sented, had not stopped with a snort, his master might 
have passed on without paying any attention to it. 

“ What the devil is there?” cried, at last, a stentorian 
voice, without a tone of fear, and which Mme. de Blanche- 
mont recognized immediately for that of the tall miller. 
“ Halloo there, friends! your carriage does not exactly 
move. Are you all dead inside, that you say nothing? ” 

When Suzette recognized the miller, whose handsome 


30 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


physiognomy had already made an agreeable impression 
on her that morning, she became very gracious, notwith¬ 
standing her slight toilette. She related the piteous con¬ 
dition to which her mistress and herself were reduced, 
and Grand-Louis, after laughing immoderately at their 
misadventure, declared that nothing was easier than to 
deliver them. He began first to free himself from a large 
sack of grain, which he carried before him on his horse ; 
and perceiving the mendicant, who seemed not to think 
of concealment — 

“ Ah ! you are here too, Father Cadoche? ” said he, in 
a friendly tone. “ Stand aside, so that I can fling down 
my sack! ” 

u I was here trying to help these poor children ! ” re¬ 
plied the mendicant; “ but there is so much water that I 
could not go forward.” 

“ Stay quiet, my old man, and do not wet yourself for 
nothing. At your age it is dangerous. I can easily get 
out these women without you.” And he wenl^ towards 
Mrne. de Blanchemont, sinking up to his horse’s breast in 
the mud. “ Come, madam,” said he gayly, “ step out a 
little on the shaft, and seat yourself behind me ; nothing 
is easier. You will not even wet the tip of your foot, for 
your legs are not as long as those of your humble servant. 
Your patachon must have been a fool to have mired you 
here, when two steps to the left there are not six inches 
of mud! ” 

“ I am distressed to cause you such a wetting,” said 
Marcelle ; “ but my child — ” 

“ Ah ! the little gentleman? Just so ! him first. Give 
him to me — that is it — here he is in front of me. Be 
easy, the saddle will not hurt him ; neither my horse nor I 
are used to one. Come, sit behind me, my little lady, 
and don’t be afraid. Sophie has a strong back and sure 
legs.” 

The miller gently placed the mother and child upon the 
turf. 

“ And me ! ” cried Suzette ; “ are you going to leave 
me in here?” 

“By no means, mademoiselle,” said Grand-Louis, return¬ 
ing for her. “ Give me your bundles, too, we will get all 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3 1 


out — make yourself easy. And now,” said he, when he 
had effected the entire debarkation, u this unlucky pat- 
achon may come when he will for his carcase of a carriage. 
I have neither shafts nor ropes to harness Sophie to it, 
but I will take you wherever you please, my little ladies.” 

“ Are we very far from Blanchemont ? ” asked Marcelle. 

“ The deuce! yes! a pretty way your patachon took 
to get you there ! It is two leagues off; and when you 
arrive everybody will be in bed, and it will be no easy 
thing to make them let us in. But if you will, we are 
only a short league from my mill at Angibault. It is 
not splendid, but clean, and my mother is a good soul, 
who will make no fuss about getting up, putting white 
sheets on the beds, and twisting a couple of chickens* 
necks. Will that suit you ? No compliments ! Come, 
ladies ! the fate of war, and the fate of the mill! The 
patache will take no cold by passing the night out of 
doors, and to-morrow morning it shall be got out and 
cleaned, and you shall go to Blanchemont at what hour 
you please.*’ 

There was cordiality, and even a kind of delicacy, in the 
miller’s blunt invitation, and Marcelle, won by his good- 
heartedness, and the mention he made of his mother, ac¬ 
cepted it with gratitude. 

u That is well, you will do me a pleasure,” said the 
miller ; “Ido not know you — you may be the lady of 
Blanchemont—but that is all one to me ; were you the 
devil (and they say the devil can look young and pretty 
when he will), I should be happy to keep you from pass¬ 
ing a bad night. Ah ! so ; I cannot leave my sack of 
corn ; I will put it on Sophie, the little one shall sit on 
it, the mamma behind ; it will not trouble you,— on the 
contrary, it will be convenient to lean on. The young 
lady will walk with me, and talk with Father Cadoche, 
who is not very well dressed, but has plenty of wit. 
But where has the old lizard gone ? ” said he, looking 
around for the vanished mendicant. “ Halloo there, 
Father Cadoche ! are you coming to sleep at our house ? 
lie does not answer,— never mind, that is not his fancy 
for to-night. Let us start, ladies ! ** 


32 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“You know this man, then?” said Marcelle. “He 
frightened us very much.” 

“ I have known him ever since I was born. He is 
not a bad man. You were wrong to fear him.” 

“ He seemed to me, ho’wever, to threaten us, and he did 
not appear to use the thee and thou in a friendly manner.” 

“ He said thee and thou ? The old rogue ! He is not 
bashful, he ! But that is his way ; do not mind it; he 
is a good-hearted man, an original; in short, he is 
Father Cadoche, called uncle by everybody, and who 
promises his inheritance to every passer-by, though he 
is as poor as his own stick.” 

Marcelle travelled very comfortably upon the strong and 
gentle Sophie. Little Edward, whom she held close be¬ 
fore her, was delighted with his ride. With his little 
feet he rapped the shoulders of the animal, who never 
felt it, and went none the quicker, but plodded on like a 
true miller’s horse, needing no guidance, knowing her 
way by heart, and finding her path through the darkness, 
amid water and stones, without a mistake or a stumble. 
At the desire of Marcelle, who feared to have her old ser¬ 
vant pass the night in the open air, the miller several 
times uplifted his thundering voice, and Lapierre, who 
had lost himself in a neighboring wood, and had been for 
more than half an hour describing circles within the 
space of an acre, soon rejoined the little caravan. 

After an hour’s march, the sound of water over a dam 
was heard, and the pale light of the moon showed the 
vine-covered roof of the mill, and the silvered banks of 
the river, close grown with mint and thyme. 

Marcelle sprung lightly upon this fragrant carpet, after 
the miller had taken down her boy, who, joyful and 
proud of his equestrian journey, threw his arms around 
his new friend’s neck, saying, “ Good-day, alochon!” 

As Grand-Louis had predicted, his old mother rose 
good-naturedly, and, with the help of a little servant-girl 
of fourteen or fifteen, the beds were soon ready. Mme. 
de Blanchemont had more need of rest than food; she 
prevented the old woman from bringing her anything but 
a cup of milk, and, exhausted with fatigue, she slept with 
her child by her maternal side, in a feather bed of im- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


33 


moderate height, and exquisite softness. These beds, 
whose only fault is to be too warm and soft, compose, 
with a full straw mattress, all the sleeping arrangement 
of the inhabitants, rich or poor, of a country where 
geese abound, and where the winters are very cold. 

Weary with a very rapid journey of eighty leagues, and 
especially with that part made in the patache, which had 
been, so to speak, the crown of it, the fair Parisian 
would gladly have slept late the next morning; but it 
was scarcely dawn when the crowing of cocks, the 
tic-tac of the mill, the loud voice of the miller, and all 
the sounds of rustic labor, compelled her to relinquish a 
longer repose. Besides, Edward, who was not in the 
least tired, and was already stimulated by the country 
air, began to frisk upon his bed. Notwithstanding all 
the noise without, Suzette, in the same room, slept so 
soundly that Marcelle had not the heart to wake her. 
Beginning then the new kind of life she had determined 
to embrace, she rose and dressed herself without the 
help of her maid, completed with extreme pleasure the 
toilet of her boy, and went out to bid good-morrow to 
her hosts. She found only the mill-boy and the little 
maid, who told her that the master and mistress had just 
gone to the end of the field to make ready the breakfast. 
Curious to know in what these preparations consisted, 
Marcelle crossed the rustic bridge, which also served as 
gate to the mill-pond, and leaving on her right a fine 
plantation of young poplars, she traversed the meadow, 
following the course of the river, or rather brook, which, 
though always full to the brim, and laving the flowering 
grass, is here no more than ten feet wide. This slender 
watercourse has, nevertheless, a strong current, and near 
the mill forms quite a large basin, motionless, deep, and 
smooth as glass, in which are reflected the ancient wil¬ 
lows, and mossy roofs of the dwelling. Marcelle con¬ 
templated this peaceful and lovely scene, which answered, 
she knew not why, to her own heart. She had seen 
more beautiful spots, but there are places which insen¬ 
sibly affect us with unconquerable emotion, and where we 
feel as if led by fate to meet joy, grief, or duty. 

3 


34 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE MILL. 

V\7HEN Marcelle made her way into the deep wood 
’ ^ where she expected to find her hosts, she felt as if 
she were entering a virgin forest. The ravages of the 
little river, when swollen by the rainy season, had every¬ 
where undermined and broken the ground, which was 
covered with a heavy growth of trees, alders, beeches, 
and magnificent aspens, half overthrown, and with their 
enormous roots lying on the wet sand, like interlaced ser¬ 
pents and hydras, leant over each other in superb con¬ 
fusion. The numerous channels of the stream flowed 
capriciously around many verdant islands, where, upon 
the dewy grass, vigorous festoons of briar were entwined 
with a hundred varieties of tall plants ; and all were left 
to the incomparable grace of their free growth. No 
landscape-garden could equal this natural luxuriance, the 
happily grouped masses of foliage, the numerous basins 
which the river had hollowed for itself in the sand and 
among the flowers, the bowers meeting above the water, 
the varied grace of the banks, and the fallen branches 
overgrown with moss, which looked as if thrown there 
to complete the beauty of the whole. Marcelle was lost 
in a kind of rapture, and would have forgotten herself 
and the passing time, but for her little Edward, who ran 
before her like a freed fawn, eager to make the print of 
his tiny feet on the smooth sand by the water. But the 
fear that he might fall in aroused her ; and, following his 
steps, and burying herself deeper and deeper in the en¬ 
chanted wilderness, she felt as if in one of those dreams 
where nature appears to us in such absolute beauty, that 
we are sometimes ready to say we have seen the earthly 
paradise. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


35 


At length the miller and his mother appeared on the 
opposite bank — one fishing for trout, the other milking 
her cow. 

“Ah! ah! my little lady, already up?” said the 
miller. “You see we are busy for you. Here is my old 
mother tormenting herself because she has nothing good 
to ofier you; but as for me, I say that you will be con¬ 
tented with our good heart. We are neither cooks nor 
tavern-keepers ; but when there is good appetite on one 
side, and good will on the other — ” 

“You treat me a hundred times too well, you kind 
people,” answered Marcelle, venturing, with Edward in 
her arms, upon the plank which served as bridge to where 
they stood. “I have never passed so good a night, nor 
seen so lovely a morning, as here. What fine trout you 
are taking, Mr. Miller! And you, mother, what beau¬ 
tiful, white, foaming milk! You spoil me, and I know 
not how to thank you.” 

“We are thanked enough if you are pleased,” said the 
old woman, with a smile. “We never see such fine peo¬ 
ple as you, and we do not know much about compliments, 
but we see plainly that you are kind, and not exacting. 
Come, come to the house! the cakes will soon be done, 
and the little one surely likes strawberries. There is a 
place in the garden where he will like to pick them him¬ 
self.” 

“You are so good, and your country is so beautiful, 
that I should like to pass my life here,” said Marcelle, 
impulsively. 

“ So?” said the miller, smiling good-naturedly. “Well! 
if the heart tells you—you see, mother, that our country 
is not so ugly as you think. Did not I tell you that a 
rich person might find it agreeable?” 

“Yes,” said the old woman, “if a chateau were built 
here, and then it would be a chateau very ill-placed.” 

“Is it possible that you are discontented here?” said 
Marcelle, in astonishment. 

“ Oh ! I am not at all discontented,” replied the miller’s 
mother. “ I have passed my life here, and I shall die 
here, if it please God. I have had time to get used to it, 


3 6 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


in seventy-five years that I have reigned here ,* and be¬ 
sides, one needs must content one’s self with one’s own 
country. But if you were to pass a winter here, madam, 
you would not call it beautiful,— when all our fields are 
under water, and we cannot even step into our yard ; no, 
no, it is not pleasant! ” 

“Bah! bah! women are always frightened,” said 
Grand-Louis. “You know that the water will not carry 
away the house, and that the mill is well insured. And 
then, one must take the bad weather as it comes. All 
winter you want summer, mother, and all summer you 
do nothing but fret about the coming winter. I tell you 
that one might live here without care or trouble.” 

“And why dost thou not do so?” returned the mother. 
“Art thou without care thyself? Dost thou like to be a 
miller, and to have thy house so often under water ? Ah ! 
if I were to tell all thou sayst sometimes upon the mis¬ 
fortune of having a poor house, and not making money ! ” 

“ There is no use in repeating all the nonsense that I 
talk sometimes, mother, you need not take the trouble ? 
But, while speaking thus reproachfully, the tall miller 
looked at his mother with affectionate, and almost suppli¬ 
cating gentleness. Their conversation did not appear so 
commonplace to Mme. de Blanchemont, as it may have 
done to the reader. In her present state of mind, she was 
desirous to know how those who were obliged to lead a 
rustic life — always the easiest for the poor — felt and ap¬ 
preciated it. She was not examining and testing it by 
merely romantic notions. Henri’s doubt of her ability to 
embrace it, had made her feel its real privations and trials. 
But she believed her courage equal to these trials, and 
what she hoped to learn from the opinion of her hosts of 
the mill, was the degree in which the philosophy or insen¬ 
sibility, given them by nature, would compare with that 
which she could gather from poetic feeling, and the yet 
more religious and powerful sentiment of love. Thus she 
manifested some curiosity when Grand-Louis had gone to 
fry his trout, as he said, in the stove. 

“So then,” she said to the old woman, “you are not 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


37 

happy; and even your son, notwithstanding his cheerful 
manner, worries sometimes ?” 

“Eh, madam! as for me,” replied the good woman, 
“I should be rich enough, and contented enough, if I saw 
my son happy. My poor husband was well enough off; 
his business was good ; but he died before he could bring 
up his family, and I have had to do the best I could for 
all my children. Now each one’s share is small; the mill 
came to my Louis, who is called Grand-Louis, as they 
called his father Grand-Jean, and as they call me Grand’- 
Marie. For, God helping, our family makes a fine 
growth, and all my children were of good size. But that 
is the most we have; the rest is so little, that it is not 
enough to raise false hopes.” 

“But, after all, why would you have more? Do you 
suffer from poverty ? It seems to me you are well lodged ; 
your bread is good, your health excellent.” 

“ Yes, yes, thanks to the good God, we have what is 
needful, and many people better than we have not so 
much ; but you see, madam, happiness or unhappiness it 
is according to one’s ideas — ” 

“There you have the real question,” said Marcelle, 
who observed good sense and natural discrimination in 
both the physiognomy and words of her companion ; “ but 
since you appreciate it so well, how comes it that you 
complain?” 

“It is not I who complain, it is my Louis ! or rather, 
it is I who fret, because I see him unhappy; aud it is he 
who does not fret, because he is brave, and afraid of 
troubling me. But sometimes, too, when the poor boy is too 
sad, he will say just one word that goes to my heart. He 
will say, ‘ Never , never , mother ! ’ and that means that he 
has given up all hope. And then, afterwards, as he is 
naturally lively, like his poor dear father, he will seem to 
make himself easy, and tell me all sorts of stories, either 
to comfort me, or because he fancies that what he takes 
into his head will really happen in time.” 

“But what has he taken into his head? Is he am¬ 
bitious?” 

“Oh yes, he has a great ambition, — a real madness! 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3S 

but it is not the love of money; for he is no miser, not 
he ! In the division of the property he gave his brothers 
and sisters all they wanted, and when he earns a little, 
he is ready to give it to the first who needs ; and it is not 
vanity, for he always wears his peasant clothes, though 
he has had an education, and might go as well dressed as 
a bourgeois; and it is not bad company, nor extrav¬ 
agance, for he is contented with everything, and never 
wants to go anywhere but on business.” 

•‘Well, then, what is it?” said Marcelle, whose sweet 
face and cordial tone insensibly drew out the old woman’s 
confidence. 

“Ah, and what should it be but love?” said the mil¬ 
ler’s mother, with a mysterious smile, and an indescribable 
and delicate air of insight, which, in matters of sentiment, 
establishes an electric chain of freedom and interest be¬ 
tween women of every age and rank. 

“You are right,” said Marcelle, drawing nearer to 
Grand’-Marie; “ love is the great disturber of youth. 

And is the woman he loves richer than he?” 

“Oh! it is not a woman! my poor Louis is too hon¬ 
orable to think of a married woman ! It is a girl, a 
young girl, a pretty girl, by my faith, and a good girl, I 
must allow. But she is rich — rich ; and, think of it as 
much as we may, her parents will never give her to a 
miller.” 

Marcelle was struck by the similarity between the mil¬ 
ler’s romance and that of her own life, and felt curious 
and interested. 

“ If this good and pretty girl loves your son,” said she, 
“ she will marry him in the end.” 

“So I tell myself sometimes, for she does love him, 
madam, as I am sure, though my Louis is not. She is 
a prudent girl, and would not tell a man she would marry 
him against her parents’ will; and then she is very gay, 
and a little coquettish ; that is natural at her age — she is 
only eighteen ! Her little mocking ways make my poor 
boy desperate ; so to comfort him, when I see that he does 
not eat, and talks loud to Sophie (our mare, saving your 
presence), I cannot help telling^him rvhat I think ; and 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


39 


he believes me a little, for he sees that I know more than 
he about women’s hearts. Now I see plainly that she 
blushes when she meets him, and when she passes our 
house, she looks round for him ; yet it is not right to tell 
my boy so, for it keeps up his madness, and I had much 
better tell him that he must not think of it.” 

“Why so?” asked Marcelle. “Love is all-powerful. 
Be sure, good mother, that a loving woman is stronger 
than all obstacles.” 

“Yes, so I thought when I was young. I said to my¬ 
self that woman’s love was like the river, breaking all 
away where it comes, and laughing at bars and dikes. I 
myself was richer than my poor Grand-Jean, yet I mar¬ 
ried him. But there was not the same difference as 
between us now and Mademoiselle — ” 

She was interrupted by little Edward calling to his 
mother. 

“ See ! Henri is here! ” 


40 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A NAME ON A TREE. 

1V/TME. DE BLANCHEMONT started, and hardly re- 
pressed a scream, as she looked around for the cause 
of her child’s exclamation. Following the direction of his 
looks and gestures, she saw a name cut with a knife on 
the bark of a tree. The boy had just begun to read, and 
knew certain words ; familiar names, perhaps taught to 
him by preference. He had recognized that of Henri in¬ 
scribed upon the smooth stem of a white poplar, and he 
fancied that his friend had just traced it. Carried away 
by her child’s imagination, Marcelle really expected for 
some moments to see' Henri Lemor appear from among 
the alders and aspens. Short reflection was needed to 
make her smile sadly at her easy credulity, and yet, as 
even a vain hope is hard to relinquish, she could not 
help asking Grand’-Marie which of her family or neigh¬ 
bors was named Henri. 

“ None that I know,” answered she. “ To be sure there 
is a family called Henri in the town of Nohant, but they 
are people like me, and don’t know how to write on paper 
or trees — unless the son should have come back from the 
army — but goodness ! it is more than two years since he 
was here.” 

“ Then you do not know who can have written this 
name ? ” 

“ I did not even know there was anything written there. 
I never paid any attention to it. And if I had seen it, I 
don’t know how to read. I might have been well taught, 
but it was not the fashion in my time. They made a cross 
upon deeds instead of a signature, and it was just as good 
in law.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


4 1 

The miller now came back to say that breakfast was 
ready. He could read and write, and seeing Marcelle’s 
attention fixed upon this name, which he had not before 
observed, he tried to explain. 

“ I see nobody but the man we had here the other day 
who could have amused himself in this way,” said he, 
“ for there are no city people come here.” 

“And what man was here the other day?” said Mar 
celle, trying to seem indifferent. 

“ The gentleman did not tell us his name,” replied the 
old woman. “We do not know much, and yet we know 
it is not polite to be inquisitive. Louis is like me in that, 
and though our country people ask all sorts of questions 
of every stranger they meet, we never desire to know 
more than others desire to tell us. The gentleman seemed 
to wish to keep his name and intentions to himself.” 

“ He asked plenty of questions, however, that chap,” 
observed Grand-Louis, “ and we might fairly have ques¬ 
tioned him in our turn. I don’t know r why I did not dare. 
There was nothing repulsive about him, and I am not 
particularly bashful; but he had an odd look, quite sad 
to see.” 

“ What kind of look?” asked Marcelle, whose curiosity 
and interest increased at each word. 

“I can hardly tell you,” replied he ; “I did not observe 
it much while he was here, but when he was gone, I be¬ 
gan to think of it. Do you remember, mother ? ” 

“ Yes, thou saidst to me, ‘ See, mother, here is one 
like me, who has not all he wants.’ ” 

“ Bah! bah! I did not say that,” returned Grand- 
Louis, fearing for his secret, and not suspecting that his 
mother had already revealed it. “I only said, ‘Here is 
one who does not appear glad to live.’ ” 

Marcelle was touched. “Was he so very sad?” she 
asked. 

“ He seemed to think a great deal. He staid here 
alone at least three hours, sitting on the ground just 
where you are now, and gazing at the river, as if he 
would count each drop that passed. I thought he was 
sick, and I came twice to ask him to come into the house 


4 2 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


and refresh himself. When I came near, lie sprang up like 
a man just waked, and looked vexed. Then all at once 
his face was very sweet and gentle, and he thanked me, 
but he would take nothing but a bit of bread and a glass 
of water.” 

“ It is Henri! ” cried Edward, who, clinging to his 
mother’s gown, had attentively listened. “ Thou know- 
est, mamma, that Henri never drinks wine !” 

Mme. de Blanchemont blushed, turned pale, blushed 
again, and in a voice which she vainly tried to steady, 
asked what this stranger had been doing in the country. 

“I know nothing about it,” replied the miller, who 
thought to himself, as he fixed his penetrating look upon 
the beautiful and changing countenance of the young 
baroness, “here is still another with a busy thought, 
like me! ” 

And desirous to satisfy Marcelle’s curiosity about the 
stranger, and his own as to the sentiments of his guest, 
he gratified her anxious expectation by entering upon the 
following details. 

The stranger had come on foot, about a fortnight pre¬ 
vious. For two days he had wandered about the Black 
Valley, and then disappeared. Nobody knew where he 
passed the nights ; the miller supposed in the open air. 
He did not seem to have much money. He had offered, 
notwithstanding, to pay for his slight repast at the mill, 
but, upon the miller’s refusal, he had thanked him with the 
simplicity of a man not too proud to accept hospitality 
from one of his own class. He was dressed neatly, like a 
workman, or a country bourgeois, in a blouse and a straw 
hat. He carried a small knapsack on his shoulder, from 
which he now and then took out paper, and seemed to be 
making notes. He said he had been at Blanchemont, but 
nobody there had seen him. Yet he spoke of the farm and 
the old chateau like a man who had examined everything. 
While eating his bread and drinking his water, he had 
asked the miller many questions about the extent of the 
estate, its mortgages, the character and reputation of the 
farmer, about the expenditures of the late M. de Blanche¬ 
mont, about his other estates, etc., so that at the mill 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


43 


they had concluded him to be an agent sent by some pur¬ 
chaser, to collect information and ascertain the quality of 
the land. 

“For it seems that the estate of Blanchemont is to be 
offered for sale, if it is not already,” added the miller, who 
was not altogether so free from the fever of curiosity 
prevalent among the neighboring peasants as his mother 
presumed him. 

Marcelle, agitated by a very different solicitude, 
scarcely heard this last observation. 

“How old might this stranger be?” she asked. 

“ If I could trust to his face,” said the miller’s mother, 
“ about as old as Louis,— near twenty-three or four.” 

“ And — how was his face ? Was he dark, of middling 
height ? ” 

“ He was not tall, and he was not fair,” said the miller ; 
u his face was not ill-looking, but pale, as if he were in 
poor health.” 

“ That might be Henri,” thought Marcelle, although 
this rude portrait poorly answered to the ideal in her 
heart. 

“ He is no man to be cheated in business,” resumed 
Grand-Louis ; “ for to pleasure M. Bricolin, the Blanche¬ 
mont farmer who wants to buy the estate, and to plague 
him a little, I diverted myself with undervaluing the 
property, but the fellow had his eyes open. The estate, 
says he, is worth so and so ; and he counted on his fin¬ 
gers the income, the costs, and the expenses, like one at 
home in the matter, and with no need of long words and 
much w T ine, our country fashion, to see the long and short 
of a thing.” 

“ Goto — I am wild,” thoughtMme. de Blanchemont; 
“ this stranger is the first comer — some clerk charged with 
country investments — and his appearance of melancholy 
and revery on the bank were simply the consequences 
of heat and fatigue. Even if it be he who cut the name 
of Henri, it is very possibly his own. Henri never took 
thought of business, never knew the value of any prop¬ 
erty, or the source and management of any of this world’s 
riches. No, no, it is not he. Besides, was he not at 


44 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Paris a fortnight ago? It is only three days since I saw 
him, and he did not tell me that lie had lately been away. 
What should have brought him to the Black Valley? 
Did he even know that the estate of Blanchemout, of 
which I never remember to have spoken to him, was 
situated in this province?” 

She turned her mind, not without effort, from the mys¬ 
terious inscription which had so much excited it, and follow¬ 
ing her host to the house, she found an excellent breakfast 
spread upon a massive table, covered with a snow-white 
cloth. There was frumenty, the favorite dish in that 
province, a kind of paste made of grain soaked in water 
and dressed with milk, preserved pears with spiced cream, 
trout from the Vauvre, broiled chickens, lean and tender, 
salad with nut oil, and scarcely ripe fruit, all which 
seemed delicious to Edward. Plates were set for the two 
servants, and the two hosts, at the same table with Mme. 
de Blanchemont, and the old woman was much amazed at 
the refusal of Lapierre and Suzette to sit beside their mis¬ 
tress. Marcelle, however, insisted that they should con¬ 
form to the habits of the country, and merrily entered 
upon that life of equality, the thought of which was so 
agreeable to her. The miller’s bearing was rough, frank, 
but never coarse. The manners of his mother were 
rather more obsequious ; and, in spite of the\ remon¬ 
strances of Grand-Louis, in whom good sense supplied the 
want of good breeding, she almost persecuted her guests 
to eat more than sufficed to their appetite, but her ur¬ 
gency was so sincere, that Marcelle did not think of find¬ 
ing fault with it. There was both heart and sense in 
this old woman, and her son resembled her in both 
respects. lie had, besides, a good elementary education. 
He had been through the primary schools, and had read 
and understood much more than lie was in haste to show. 
Marcelle found, on talking with him, greater accuracy of 
thought, and more sense and natural taste, than she had ex¬ 
pected the evening before from the “ tall miller” whom she 
met at the inn. All this was so much the more valuable, 
because, far from the vanity of showing it off, he even 
affected a clownish roughness of manner. His chief 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


45 


fear seemed to be to pass for a village wonder; and he 
had a settled contempt for pretension — for people who try 
to set themselves above their honest birth and respect¬ 
able condition. His language was usually correct, 
though he liked to introduce the easy and picturesque 
provincialisms of his district. When he quite forgot 
himself, he talked with perfect ease, and no trace was left 
of the miller; but soon, as if ashamed of this departure 
from his sphere, he would resume his harmless pleasant¬ 
ries and unpresuming familiarity. 

With all this, Marcelle was somewhat embarrassed 
when the patachon came, about seven o’clock, to take 
her directions. She desired, when she took leave of 
her entertainers, to pay for the expense to which she had 
put them, but they refused to receive anything. 

“No, my dear lady, no,” said the miller to her in a 
quiet but firm voice ;we are not innkeepers. We might 
be, and it would not be beneath us. But as we are not, 
we will take nothing from you.” 

“ Nay,” said Marcelle, “ will you not permit me to in¬ 
demnify you for all the disturbance and expense I have 
made you? for I know that your mother gave me her 
chamber, and took your bed, while you slept in the barn on 
the hay. You left your work this morning to go and fish. 
Your mother heated the oven, took considerable trouble, 
and we must have made quite a hole in your larder.” 

“ Oh, my mother slept very well, and I still better,” 
replied Graud-Louis. “ Trout cost me nothing from the 
Vauvre, and to-day is Sunday, when I always fish all 
the morning. A little flour, bread, and milk, with some 
poor poultry, which served for your breakfast, will not 
ruin us. So the service is nothing great, and you can 
accept it without uneasiness. We shall never cast it up 
to you, especially as we may never see you again.” 

“ I hope that you will,” replied Marcelle, “ for I in¬ 
tend staying some days, at least, at Blanchemont, and I 
should like to return and thank your mother and yourself 
for your cordial hospitality, which I am still rather 
ashamed to accept.” 

“ And why be ashamed to take a little service from 


46 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


honest folks ? If you are pleased with our good-will, all 
is even. I know that, in cities, everything, to a cup of 
water, is paid for. It is a poor way, and here in the 
country we should be badly off if we did not help one an¬ 
other. Pray, then, say no more about it.” 

u Then you would not like to have me come again and 
ask for some breakfast? You will force me to deny my¬ 
self that pleasure, or feel myself encroaching upon you?” 

u That is another affair. We have only done our duty 
in showing you what you call hospitality, for we have been 
brought up to look upon it as a duty ; and although the 
good custom is passing away, and nowadays poor peo¬ 
ple, without asking to be paid for such little services, take 
pretty much all that is given them, it is neither my 
mother’s judgment nor mine to change old customs when 
they are good. If there had been a tolerable inn here¬ 
abouts, I would have taken you there last night, thinking 
you would be better off than with us, and seeing that you 
were able to pay for what you wanted. But there was 
none, good or bad ; and unless I had been a brute, I could 
not have let you pass the night out of doors. Do you 
think I would have asked you to my house if I had 
thought of letting you pay ? No ; for, as I tell you, I am no 
innkeeper. See, there is no sign or bush over our door !” 

u I ought to have observed that at first,” said Marcelle, 
“ and shown more discretion in my conduct here. But 
what do you say to my question ? You do not wish me 
to return ? ” 

“ That is another affair. I invite you to come back 
whenever you please. The place suits you, and your 
little boy likes our cakes, which makes me bold to say 
that you will do us a pleasure whenever you come.” 

“ And will you oblige me, as you have to-dav, to take 
all gratis ? ” 

“ When I invite you ? Did I express myself so badly?” 
u And you do not see that this seems to me like taking 
too much advantage of your kindness ? ” 

“ No, I do not see it. When one is invited, one makes 
use of one’s right to accept.” 

“Come,” said Mme. de Blanchemont, “ I see that you 


i 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


47 


have true politeness, a thing not to be had in our world. 
You have taught me that the caution and reticence of 
which we boast, and which are unhappily so necessary 
in society, have taken such high place only since kindness 
has changed into compliment, and good-breeding is no 
longer the expression of real sympathy.” 

u You say well,” answered the miller, his face lit up with 
a ray of quick intelligence ; “ and by my honest faith, I 
am very glad to have had the opportunity to oblige you ! ” 
u If so, you will allow me to receive you in my turn 
when you come to Blanchemont?” 

“ Ah ! pardon me ! but I shall not go to your house. I 
6hall go, as I often do, to carry grain to your farmers, and 
I shall simply have the pleasure of bowing to you.” 

u Ah ! ah ! Monsieur Louis, then you will not break¬ 
fast with me ? ” 

“ Yes, and no. I eat often with your tenants; but 
there would be a difference, if you were there. You are 
a noble lady — enough.” 

* “ Explain — I do not understand.” 

“ Well, then, have you not preserved the habits of the old 
nobility? Should you not send your miller to the kitchen 
to eat with your servants, and certainly without your com¬ 
pany? Now I have no objection myself to eating with 
them, since I did the same thing to-day in my own house ; 
but it would seem odd to me that you should have sat at 
my table, and I could not sit at yours, or draw my chair 
by your own, in your chimney-corner. The fact is, I am 
rather proud. I should not blame you — each one has his 
own way of thinking and acting — and for that very 
reason I do not choose to go where I should be obliged to 
yield to that of another.” 

Marcelle was much struck with the miller’s good sense 
and sincere hardihood. She felt that he had given her a 
valuable lesson, and she rejoiced inwardly that her new 
theory of life permitted her to receive it unabashed. 

u Monsieur Louis,” she said, u you are mistaken with re¬ 
gard to me. That I am of the nobility is not my fault; 
but it so happens that, by chance or good fortune, I no 
longer wish to conform to its customs. If you come to 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAUL7. 


4 * 

see me, I shall not forget that you received me as your 
equal and served me as your neighbor ; and if it be neces¬ 
sary to show you that I am not ungrateful, I will myself 
set yours and your mother’s place at my table, as you 
have set mine at yours.” 

“Would you really do that?” said the miller, fixing 
his eyes on Marcelle with a mixture of surprise, respect¬ 
ful doubt, and familiar sympathy. “ If so, I will go — 
or rather, no, I will not go, for I can see that you are 
really kind and good.” 

u I cannot tell what you mean by that last observation.” 

u Faith I if you do not understand — I hardly know 
how to express myself better.” 

“ Come, Louis, I think thou art crazy,” said old Marie, 
who had been gravely knitting through all this conver¬ 
sation. u I do not know where thou hast picked up all 
that thou sayest to our lady. Your pardon, madam, 
the boy is a care-for-nought, and has always come right 
out to everybody, great and small, with all that he hap¬ 
pened to think. You must not be angry with him. Be- * 
lieve me, he has a good heart at bottom, and would this 
minute, I see by his face, fling himself into the fire for 
you ” 

u Not so sure of the fire,” said the miller, laughing; 

“ but into the water — my element. You Can easily see, 
mother, that the lady is a woman of sense, and one can 
say what one thinks to her. I say it eveu to M. Bric- 
olin, her farmer, who is certainly much more to be feared 
here than she ! ” 

“ Say it out, then, Master Louis ! I desire information. 
Why would not you come to visit me because I am kind 
and good ? ” 

“ Because it would be wrong in us to make ourselves 
familiar with you, and wrong in you to treat us as equals. 
It would subject you to many disagreeable things. Your 
equals would blame you, and say that you forgot your 
rank, and I know that to be a heavy crime in their eyes. 
And then you would have to be just as kind to others as 
to us, or the rest would be jealous, and become our ene¬ 
mies. Each one must follow his own course. They sav 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


49 


that the world is mightily changed within fifty years, but 
to my mind nothing is changed but the ideas of people in 
my rank. We will no longer submit as we have done. 
Now my mother there, whom, for all that, I love dearly, 
the good soul, sees things differently from me. But the 
rich and the nobles hold the same opinions as ever. If 
you hold them not, if you do not despise common peo¬ 
ple, but treat them with the same respect that you do your 
equals, it may be so much the worse for you. I have often 
seen your late husband, M. de Blanchemont, whom some 
people continued to call the Lord of Blanchemont. Every 
year he came to the country for two or three days. He 
said thee and thou to us. If it had been in friendliness, 
very well: but it was in contempt, and we must always 
speak to him standing, and cap in hand. Now this did 
not suit me at all. One day he met me on the road, and 
ordered me to hold his horse. I made believe deaf: he 
called me boor ; I looked sideways at him ; if he had not 
been so slender and feeble, I would have let him hear a 
word or two. But it would have been cowardly, and I 
went singing on my way. That man could not be pleased 
if he were living, and heard you speak as you do now to 
me. Why, look you ! I saw to-day, only by your servants’ 
faces, that they thought you too. unceremonious with us 
and themselves. Ay, ay, madam, it is for you to come 
and revisit the mill, and for us, who love you, not to go 
and put ourselves at the table of the chateau.” 

“ I forgive you all the rest for that last word, and I 
think yet to convince you,” said Marcelle, offering him 
her hand, while the noble purity of her countenance com¬ 
manded respect at the same time that her manner engaged 
affection. The miller blushed as he received the delicate 
fingers in his enormous hand, and, for the first time, felt 
himself timid in Marcelle’s presence, like a bold but lov¬ 
ing child whose pride is suddenly conquered by tender¬ 
ness. 

“I will mount Sophie, and be your guide to Blanche¬ 
mont,” said he, after a moment of embarrassed silence ; 
“this unlucky patachon would lead you astray again, 
though it is not far.” 


4 


/ 


50 THE MILLER OF A NG IB AULT. 

“I accept your kindness,” said Marcelle; “will you 
still say that I am proud ? ” 

“ I will say, will say,” cried Grand-Louis, rushing has¬ 
tily out, “that if all rich women were like you—” 

The end of his sentence was lost, and his mother fin¬ 
ished it for him. 

“He is thinking,” said she, “that if the girl he loves 
has as little pride as you, he should not be so tormented.” 

“ And could not I be useful to him?” asked Marcelle, 
with a joyful thought of her wealth and its sacred uses. 

“ Perhaps, by speaking well of him before the young 
lady, for you will soon know her. But pshaw ! she is too 
rich! ” 

“We will talk of it again,” said Marcelle, perceiving 
that her servants had come for her baggage. “I will 
come back soon, perhaps to-morrow.” 

The red-headed, scrubbed patachon had passed the night 
under a tree, for in the darkness he had not been able to 
discover any habitation in the Black Valley. At day¬ 
break he had perceived the mill, and there he and his 
horse had been fed and refreshed, notwithstanding which 
he was in very ill temper, and quite ready to reply inso¬ 
lently to the reproaches which he expected. But, on the 
one hand, Marcelle made him none, and on the other, 
the miller overwhelmed him with so many jeers, that lie 
could not put in a word, and took his place on the shaft 
in sheepish silence. Little Edward besought his mother 
to let him ride on horseback before the miller, who took 
him lovingly in his arms, saying aside to the old woman : 

“ Such an one would make a gay house for us, mother, 
eh? But that will never be !” 

And the mother understood that he would never marry 
another than her to whom he could not reasonably aspire. 


BLANCHEMONT. 


IV/rARCELLE having embraced Grand-Marie, and pri- 
vately but amply recompensed the servants at the 
mill, gayly reentered the detestable patache. She felt a 
larger expansion and freedom of spirit from this, her first 
trial of equality, and the result of her romantic projects 
appeared to her eyes clothed in the most poetic colors. 
But the mere sight of Blanchemont cast a shadow over 


her thoughts, and she had no sooner passed the gate of 
her domain, than her heart sank within her. 

The terrace of Blanchemont is reached by following 
the road up the river Vauvre, and climbing a rather steep 
eminence. It is a pretty lawn, shaded by old trees, and 
commanding a beautiful view, not one of the most exten¬ 
sive in the Black Valley, but gentle and pleasing, over 
a country which seems uninhabited, on account of the 
scarcity of its dwellings, and the way in which their 
roofs, of thatch or brown tile, are hidden among the 
trees. 

The terrace slopes gently toward the river, here flow¬ 
ing in graceful windings, and is surrounded by the low 
cabins of the hamlet, among which stands a humble 
church. Thence a broad and stony road leads to the 
chateau, placed in the midst of green fields, a little below, 
and in rear of the terrace. From this level the beau¬ 
tiful blue horizons of Berry and La Marche are lost from 
sight, and become visible only from the second story of 


the chateau. 

This building never possessed great means of defence ; 
its walls are only five or six feet thick at their foundation, 
and its flanking towers are corbelled. It dates from the 


5 2 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


end of the feudal wars. Nevertheless, the small size of 
its doors, the scarcity of windows, and the remains of 
numerous walls and turrets which once clustered around 
it, indicate an age of general distrust and precaution. It 
is built with some elegance, in an oblong form, contain¬ 
ing at each story one large room, with four towers en¬ 
closing smaller chambers at the angles, and another tower 
at the back, serving as cage to the solitary staircase. 
The chapel is isolated by the destruction of the former 
offices, the moat is partially filled up, the surrounding 
turrets are broken off midway, and the pond which for¬ 
merly washed the northern side of the chateau has be¬ 
come a pretty meadow, with a little spring in its centre. 

But the attention of the heiress of Blanchemont was not 
at first occupied by the still picturesque aspect of the old 
chateau. The miller, in helping her from the carriage, di¬ 
rected her towards what he called the new chateau and the 
immense farming establishment, situated at the foot of the 
ancient manor, and close upon a very large court, enclosed 
on one side by a battlemented wall, and on the other by a 
hedge, and a ditch full of muddy water. Nothing can be 
more dismal and disagreeable than this wealthy farmer’s 
dwelling. The new chateau is only a large and ordinary 
house, built perhaps fifty years since, with the ruins of the 
old fortifications, but the fresh stucco on its solid walls, and 
the new tiles, of screeching red * upon the roof, show that 
it has been lately repaired. This exterior rejuvenation 
jars with the antiquated look of the other farm-buildings, 
and the egregious filthiness of the court. These dark 
buildings, which show traces of ancient architecture, and 
are solid and well preserved, form a continuous range of 
barns and stables, the property of one tenant, who is 
thereby the pride of all the farmers, and the admira¬ 
tion of all the agriculturists of the country round. But 
the space they enclose, although useful and convenient 
for the work of the farm, offers a repulsive prospect to 
the eye. Enormous heaps of manure, sunk in square 

* Rouge criard. The grotesque strength of the French phrase 
seems only to be matched by one of our own Western expres¬ 
sions, which I have accordingly used. — Tr. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


53 


stone pits, and still rising ten or twelve feet above ground, 
send forth unclean streams which are allowed to run freely 
towards the lower land, to improve the vegetables of the 
kitchen garden. These stores of fatness are the favorite 
possessions of the farmer. They fill his eye, and swell 
liis heart with pride when a neighbor looks upon them 
with admiration or envy. In smaller farm-yards, these 
details are not disagreeable to the artistic eye or mind. 
Their irregularity, the confusion of farming tools, and the 
verdure around all, conceal or make them graceful; but 
on a large scale, and in a broad field, nothing is more dis¬ 
gusting than this all-surrounding filth. Flocks of turkeys, 
geese, and ducks take care that there shall be no safety 
in setting one’s foot upon any spot spared by the flow 
from the manure heaps. The ground, bare and uneven, 
is crossed by a paved way, which at present is no more 
practicable than the rest, for the remains of the old roof¬ 
ing of the new chateau are scattered everywhere, so that 
one literally walks upon a field of broken tiles. It is six 
months, indeed, since the work was finished ; but the re¬ 
pairs were at the charge of the owner of the estate, 
while the expense of carrying away the rubbish and 
clearing the court belongs to the tenant, who intends to 
do it when the summer work is over, and his own men 
can attend to it. On the one hand, he will thus econ¬ 
omize several days of his laborers’ time, and on the 
other, he gratifies the heavy apathy of a Berrichon,* 
who always leaves something unfinished, as if, after any 
effort, his exhausted activity found repose and the luxury 
of indolence indispensable before the end of the task. 

Marcelle compared this coarse and disgusting rustic 
opulence with the poetic competence of the miller, and 
would have spoken to him on the subject, if a word could 
have been heard amid the distressed cries of the turkeys, 
unluckily rendered immovable by their very terror, the 
hissing of maternal geese, and the barking of four or 
five lean, yellow dogs. As it was Sunday, the cattle were 
in the stables and the laborers hanging about the door, 


•Native of the province of Berri. 


54 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


dressed from head to foot in their holiday clothes of dark 
blue cloth. They stared at sight of the patache, but no 
one stirred to receive it, or to warn the farmer of the ar¬ 
rival of a visitor. Grand-Louis was obliged to serve as 
usher to Mme. de Blanchemont, which he did with little 
ceremony, calling out, as he entered without knocking: 

“ See here, Mme. Bricolin ! Here is Mme. de Blanche¬ 
mont come to see you.” 

The three Bricolin women, who had just returned from 
mass, and were about to partake, standing, of a slight col¬ 
lation, were so startled by this unexpected news, that they 
remained stupefied, looking at each other as to ask what 
was to be said and ddne in such circumstances ; and they 
had not yet stirred from their places when Marcelle 
entered. The group before her was composed of three 
generations. The mother Bricolin, who could neither 
read or write, and who wore the peasant costume ; Mme. 
Bricolin, the farmer’s wife, a little more elegant than her 
mother-in-law, and looking something like a curate’s 
housekeeper; she could sign her name legibly, and find 
the times of sunrise, and the phases of the moon, in the 
Liege almanac; last, Mile. Rose Bricolin, fair and fresh 
as a May rose, who knew very well how to read ro¬ 
mances, keep the house accounts, and dance a contra- 
dance. Her hair was carefully braided, and she wore a 
dress of rose-colored muslin, fitting perfectly to her beau¬ 
tiful form, which was, however, somewhat injured by the 
exaggerated length of the waist, and the tight sleeves 
then in fashion. The expression of her charming face 
was at once artless and shrewd, and effaced the disagree¬ 
able impression which her mother’s sharp and crabbed 
look had made upon Marcelle. The physiognomy of the 
grandmother was free and open, though she was sun¬ 
burned and wrinkled, like one who had seen hard work 
and weather. These three women stood open-mouthed ; 
Mother Bricolin really wondering whether this young and 
beautiful lady were the same whom she had sometimes 
seen at the chateau thirty years before — meaning Mar¬ 
cel le’s mother, whom, nevertheless, she knew to have been 
long dead — Mme. Bricolin, the mistress of the house, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


55 


observing that she had been too hasty on her return from 
mass, in putting a kitchen apron over her maroon-colored 
merino dress, and Mile. Rose, rapidly considering that 
she was irreproachably clad and shod, and that, thanks to 
the Sabbath, she could be surprised by a Parisian fine 
lady without having to blush for any vulgar domestic 
occupation. 

In the eyes of the Bricolin family, Mme. de Blanche- 
mont had always been a problematical being of possible 
existence, whom they never had seen, and certainly never 
would see. They had known her lordly husband, who 
was not loved because he was haughty, not esteemed be¬ 
cause he was extravagant, and not at all feared because 
he was always in need of money, and would have it at 
any price. Since his death, they had thought to deal only 
with men of business, as the deceased had often said to 
them, when producing his wife’s complaisant signature, 
“ Mme. de Blanchemont is but a child ; she takes no con¬ 
cern in all this, and cares very little where the money 
comes from, if I only carry her enough.” It is to be 
understood that the husband was accustomed to lay to the 
charge of his wife’s expensive tastes all that he himself 
lavished upon his mistresses. Thus there was no sus¬ 
picion of the true character of the yoitng widow, and Mme. 
Bricolin thought herself dreaming, when she saw her ap¬ 
pear in person in the very midst of Blanchemont Farm. 
Ought she to be glad or sorry? Was this singular ap¬ 
parition of good or evil augury for the prosperity of the 
Bricolins ? Had she come to claim or to sue ? 

While, a prey to these sudden perplexities, the dame 
examined Marcelle something as a goat does a strange 
dog in the flock, Rose Bricolin, suddenly won by the af¬ 
fable air and simple attire of the stranger, had found 
courage to advance two steps towards her. The grand¬ 
mother was the least embarrassed of the three. After 
the first moment of surprise, and when she had exerted 
her feeble head to understand the state of the case, she 
approached Marcelle with blunt frankness, and greeted 
her in almost the same terms that had been used, though 
with more grace and dignity, by the miller’s mother of 


56 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Angibault. The two others, reassured by the sweet and 
gentle maimer in which Marcelle requested their hospi¬ 
tality for a few days, that she might, as she said, talk 
over her affairs with M. Bricolin, soon hastened to offer 
her breakfast. 

The excellent meal which she had taken, an hour be¬ 
fore, at the mill of Angibault, was Marcelle’s excuse for 
refusing, and not till then were the eyes of the three 
Bricolin women turned upon Grand-Louis, who stood 
near the door, chatting with the servant-maid, for a pre¬ 
text to stay a little louger. These three looks were very 
different. The grandmother’s was friendly, her daughter- 
in-law’s disdainful, and that of Rose doubtful and inde¬ 
finable, as if both feelings were secretly mingled in it. 

“ How! ” cried Mme. Bricolin, in a tone of united 
condolence and scorn, when Marcelle had in few words 
related her night’s adventures, “you were forced to sleep 
in that mill ? And we did not know it! Eh ! why did 
not that stupid miller bring you here at once? Ah, 
heavens! What a bad night you must have passed, 
madam! ” 

“ Excellent, on the contrary. I was treated like a 
queen, and I am a thousand times obliged to M. Louis 
and to his mother.” 

“Now that does not astonish me,” said the mother 
Bricolin; “ Grand’-Marie is such a fine woman, and 
keeps her house so neatly ! She is my own old friend ; 
we have kept sheep together, saving your presence; we 
were called two pretty lasses in those days, though you 
would not think it now, would you, madam? We each 
knew just about the same things — to spin, and knit, and 
make cheese, and that was all. We married very differ¬ 
ently ; she took a man poorer than herself, and I one 
richer than I was. But both were for love : that was the 
way in our time; now they marry only for money, and 
shillings count for more than sentiments. They are none 
the better for it, are they, Mme. de Blanchemont? ” 

“ I am quite of your opiuion,” said Marcelle. 

“ Eh! good conscience, mother, what idle tales are 
you telling the lady ? ” sharply resumed Mme. Bricolin. 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UT. T. 


57 

u Do you think she will be amused with your old stories? 
Lh! miller!” she added in an imperious voice, “go 
see if M. Bricolin is in the warren or the oat-field behind 
the house. Tell him to come and pay his respects to 
the lady.” 

“M. Bricolin,” answered the miller, with a clear 
glance and a look of merry bravado, “is neither in his 
oat-field nor in the warren; I saw him as I passed by, 
drinking a measure with Monsieur the Curate, at the 
presbytery.” 

“Ah, yes,” said the grandmother, “he must be at the 
precipitary. Monsieur the Curate is always very hungry 
and thirsty after high mass, and likes to have company. 
Say, Louis, my boy, wilt thou go and fetch him, thou art 
always so obliging?” 

“ I will go instantly,” said the miller, who had not 
stirred at the command of the farmer’s wife; and he 
ran hastily out. 

“ If you think him obliging,” muttered Mme. Bric¬ 
olin, looking crossly at her mother-in-law, “you are not 
hard to please.” 

“Oh, mamma, that should not be said,” spoke pretty 
Rose Bricolin, with her soft voice; “Grand-Louis is 
very good-hearted.” 

“And what is his good heart to you?” returned Mme. 
Bricolin, with increased indignation. “What has set 
you both up for him lately?” 

“Nay, mamma, it is thou who art unjust towards 
him of late,” replied Rose, who, accustomed to her grand¬ 
mother’s protection, seemed to have no great fear of her 
mother. “Thou art always rough with him, and yet 
thou knowest that papa has great esteem for him.” 

“ Thou wouldst do better thyself,” said the mistress, 
“to go, instead of prating, and prepare thy chamber, 
which is the best ordered in the house, for the lady, who 
perhaps would like to rest herself before dinner-time. 
Madame will excuse us if she is not very well lodged 
here. It was only last year that the late M. de Blanche- 
mont agreed to fit up the new chateau a little, for it was 
almost as much ruined ns the old one; and it was only 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT 


53 

then, at the renewal of our lease, that we could begin to 
furnish suitably. Nothing is finished, the papers are not 
yet put up in the chambers, and we expect bureaux and 
beds, which have not yet come from Bourges. We have 
some, too, still unpacked. We are fairly heels-over-head, 
since the workmen overturned everything.” 

The domestic disarray which Mme. Bricolin thus detailed 
in her discourse, sprung from precisely the same causes 
as that which Marcelle had remarked outside the house. 
Economy, joined to apathy, induced slow and long ex¬ 
pense, and postponed indefinitely the enjoyment of the 
desired luxury, which, although within their reach, 
they dared not grasp. The dismal and smoke-blackened 
room in which they had been surprised by the chatelaine, 
was the ugliest aud dirtiest of the new chateau. It was 
at once kitchen, eating-room, and parlor. The poultry 
had access to it through the ever open door, and the care 
of driving them out was one of the constant occupations 
of the mistress, whose natural activity and love of dis¬ 
cipline were perhaps sustained by the perpetual state of 
anger and severity in which she was kept by the repeated 
offences of the fowls. Here were received the peasants 
who came incessantly on business; and as their muddy 
feet and the freedom of their habits would inevitably 
have spoiled a polished floor and fine furniture, only 
coarse straw chairs and wooden benches were placed 
upon the bare stone pavement, swept ten times a day, 
but swept in vain. Swarms of flies, and the fire, which 
at all hours and in all seasons burned in the huge 
chimney-place, with its swinging cranes, made it an un¬ 
comfortable place in summer. Yet this was the room 
continually inhabited by the family ; and when Marcelle 
was shown into the next apartment, she saw that the 
parlor was virgin yet, although it had been furnished for 
a year. It was decorated with the vulgar fiuery of a 
tavern. The new floor had never yet been polished with 
wax. The showy muslin curtains were hung from de¬ 
testably ugly copper ornaments. The chimney garniture 
corresponded to these in glitter and bad taste. A very 
rich stand, intended for some future coffee-taking, re- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


59 


mainedjwith all its gilded bronzes, wrapped in paper and 
twine. The furniture was covered with a red and white 
check, beneath which the worsted damask was destined 
to wear out without seeing the light; and, as in these 
farms no distinction is made between parlor and bed¬ 
room, two mahogany bedsteads, still uncurtained, were 
placed facing the window, on the right and left of the 
door of entrance. It was whispered in the family that 
this would be Rose’s bridal chamber. 

Marcelle found this house so disagreeable, that she de¬ 
termined not to stay in it. She declared that she did 
not wish to cause her hosts the least trouble, and that 
she would find some peasant’s house in the village where 
she could be lodged, unless there were some habitable 
chamber in the old chateau. Mme. Bricolin appeared 
disturbed at this last idea, and spared no pains to turn 
her guest’s mind from it. 

“It is very true,” she said, “that there is always 
what we call the ‘master’s room’ in the old chateau. 
When the baron, your late husband, did us the honor 
to come here — as he always wrote beforehand, to give 
us notice — we took care to clean up, that he should not 
find things so bad. But the poor chateau is so dismal, 
and so decayed — the rats and the night-birds make a 
frightful noise inside — and besides, the roofs are so poor, 
and the walls so tottling, that there is surely no safety 
in sleeping there. I cannot imagine why the baron had 
such a fancy for that room. He never would take one 
with us, and one would have thought that he felt it a dis¬ 
grace to pass a night elsewhere than under his own old 
roof.” 

“I will go and look at the chamber,” said Marcelle, 
“and if it afford a shelter, it will be all I need. Mean¬ 
while, I beg you not to disturb yourselves. I do not 
wish to give you any trouble whatsoever.” 

Rose expressed her desire to yield her apartment to 
Mme. de Blanchemont in so amiable a manner, and 
with so winning a face, that Marcelle gently pressed her 
haud to thank her, but adhered to her resolution. The 
appearance of the new chateau, joined to an instinctive 


6o 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


repugnance for Mme. Bricolin, made her obstinate in 
refusing the hospitality which at the mill she had at last 
cordially accepted. 

She was still declining the dame’s ceremonious impor¬ 
tunities, when M. Bricolin arrived. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


61 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PARVENU PEASANT. 

A/T BRICOLIN was a man of fifty, robust, and with 
regular features. But his thick-set limbs were 
swollen by corpulence, as happens to all well-to-do country 
bourgeois, who, passing their days in the open air, chiefly 
on horseback, and leading an active, but not laborious life, 
have* just enough fatigue to keep them in excellent appe¬ 
tite and perfect health. Thanks to the stimulus of con¬ 
tinual air and exercise, such men endure daily excess for 
a long time without suffering from it; but although in 
their rural occupations their dress is very similar to that 
of the peasant, they can never be mistaken at the first 
glance. While the peasant is always thin, well-propor¬ 
tioned, and of a swarthy complexion, which is not with¬ 
out its beauty, the country bourgeois is always, from the 
age of forty, afflicted with obesity, a heavy bearing, and 
a vinous coloring of face, which vulgarize and disfigure 
the finest organization. 

Among those who have made their own fortunes, and 
have begun life by the forced sobriety of the peasant, are 
found no exceptions to this enlargement of the figure and 
alteration of the skin. For it is a proverbial observation, 
that when the peasant begins to eat meat and drink wine 
freely, he becomes incapable of labor, and the return to 
his former habits would be infallibly and promptly fatal. 
It might be said of these men that their money has passed 
into their blood, that body and soul are bound to it, and 
that the loss of fortune would cost them life or reason. 
Every idea of devotion to humanity, every religious con¬ 
ception, is almost incompatible with the transformation 
produced by wealth in their physical and moral being. It 


62 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


would be useless to feel indignation against them. They 
cannot be otherwise. They are fattening for apoplexy or 
imbecility. Their faculties for the acquisition and pres¬ 
ervation of wealth, strongly developed at first, are ex¬ 
hausted toward the midst of their career, and after having 
made a fortune with remarkable skill and rapidity, they 
fall early into apathy, disorder, and incapacity. No social 
ideal, no sentiment of progress upholds them. Digestion 
becomes the business of their lives ; and the fortune they 
have so vigorously acquired is involved, before its con¬ 
solidation, in a thousand embarrassments, and compro¬ 
mised by a thousand mistakes, not to speak of the vauity 
which hurries them into speculations beyond their credit, 
so that each of these rich men is commonly ruined just 
when he is considered most an object of env^. 

M. Bricolin had not yet reached this point. He was 
at an age when the whole force of his activity and will 
could still struggle against the double intoxication of 
pride and intemperance. But one look at his sunken 
eyes, his huge stomach, his shining nose, and the nervous 
trembling given to his robust hand by his habit of a morn¬ 
ing cup (that is to say, two bottles of white wine fasting), 
was enough to show that the time was near when this man, 
now so active and vigilant, so sagacious and so pitiless in 
business, would lose health, memory, judgment, and even 
his hard-heartedness, and become an exhausted drunkard, 
a clumsy braggart, and an easily-cheated master. 

His face had been handsome, although entirely desti¬ 
tute of refinement. His compact and strongly-marked 
features were indicative of uncommon energy and sever¬ 
ity. His eye was black, quick and hard ; his mouth sen¬ 
sual ; forehead low and narrow ; his hair crisp, and his 
speech short and rapid. There was no falseness in his 
look, nor hypocrisy in his manners. He was not a fraud¬ 
ulent man, and his great respect for meum and tuum , 
according to the terms of actual society, made him incap¬ 
able of cheating. Besides, the cynicism of his cupidity 
prevented him from veiling his intentions ; and when he 
had said to his neighbor, “My interest is ccntrary to 
thine,” he considered that his subsequent action was 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 63 

based upon the most sacred right, and looked upon its 
announcement as a deed of exalted loyalty. 

Half bourgeois, half laborer, his Sunday costume was 
between that of the peasant and the gentleman. The form 
of his hat was lower than that of the one, and it had a 
narrower brim than that of the other. He wore a gray 
blouse, gathered in folds around his short waist, so that 
he looked like a girdled cask. His gaiters smelt unmis¬ 
takably of the stable, and his black silk cravat was shin¬ 
ing and greasy. This short, brusque personage made an 
unpleasant impression upon Marcelle, and she had still 
less sympathy with his conversation, which was prolix, 
and always turning upon money, than with the unpleasing 
attentions of his better half. 

The following is nearly the substance of the two hours* 
babble which she had to endure from Master Bricolin. 
The estate of Blanchemont was loaded with mortgages 
for a large third of its value. The late baron had, beside, 
demanded considerable advances from his tenant, and paid 
enormous interest, which M. Bricolin had been forced to 
exact , on account of the difficulty of procuring money, and 
the usurious rates established in the country. Mme. de 
Blanchemont would be obliged to submit to still harder 
conditions, if she chose to continue the system which she 
had authorized her husband to pursue, or else, before 
claiming the revenues, she must pay the arrears, capital 
and interest, and compound interest, altogether more thau 
a hundred thousand francs. As for the other creditors, 
they desired to receive their entire due, or keep the whole 
debt as an investment. It had thus become necessary to 
sell the estate, or to obtain ready money; in a word, the 
property was worth eight hundred thousand francs, and 
was encumbered with four hundred thousand francs of 
debt, without counting that toward M. Bricolin. There 
remained three hundred thousand francs, henceforth the 
only fortune of Mme. de Blanchemont, independent of 
what her husband had or had not left to his son, and of 
which she was yet ignorant. 

Far from foreseeing such great disasters, Marcelle had 
not imagined the half of them. The creditors had made, 


6 4 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


as yet, no claim, and, well furnished with their titles, they 
waited, M. Bricolin at their head, till the widow should 
inquire into her position, to demand of her entire pay¬ 
ment, or the continuation of the revenue assured to them 
by the loan. When she asked Bricolin why, during a 
month that she had been a widow, he had not informed 
her of the state of her affairs, he told her with coarse 
frankness that lie had no reasons for haste, that her credit 
was good, and that every day of indifference on the side 
of the owner was a day of profit for the farmer, during 
which he accumulated the interest of his money without 
any risk. This peremptory reasoning quickly enlightened 
Marcelle upon M. Bricolin’s species of morality. 

“It is just,” she answered, with a smile whose irony 
was beyond the farmer’s comprehension. “ I see that 
the fault is mine, if every day that I let slip devours more 
than my expected income. But, for my son’s interest, I 
must put a stop to this kind of sliding-scale, and I expect 
from you, M. Bricolin, good counsel on this subject.” 

M. Bricolin, much amazed at the composure with which 
the lady of Blanchemont had just received the informa¬ 
tion that she was very nearly ruined, and still more at the 
confidence with which she consulted him, looked full in 
her face. He saw in her eyes a sort of arch defiance, 
given by absolute candor to his cupidity. 

“I see plainly,” said he, “that you are trying me, but 
I have no desire to expose myself to blame from your 
family. It is injurious to a man to be accused of inter¬ 
ested acquiescence in usurious rates. I must speak with 
you seriously, Mme. de Blanchemont, but these walls are 
too thin, and what I have to say must not be rumored 
abroad. If you will pretend to go and examine the old 
chateau with me, I will tell you, first, what I should ad¬ 
vise you to do if I were your relation, and secondly, 
what, being your creditor, I desire that you should do. 
You will see if there is any third course ; I think not.” 

If the old chateau had not been surrounded by bram¬ 
bles, foul and stagnant pools, and a quantity of rubbish 
which gave it an appearance of barbarous disorder, it 
would have been a picturesque relic of the past. Part 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 65 

of the moat was filled with tall reeds, and one face of the 
building, including a breach in the wall where some wild 
cherry-trees had attained a magnificent growth, was cov¬ 
ered with a superb ivy. This side was truly poetic. M. 
Bricolin showed Marcelle the chamber which her husband 
had been accustomed to inhabit on his visits; it con¬ 
tained some remains of furniture in the style of Louis 
XVI., very dirty, and much faded. Nevertheless the 
room was habitable, aud Mme. de Blanchemont resolved 
to pass the night there. 

“That will rather vex my wife, who counted on the 
honor of receiving you with her new furniture,” said M. 
Bricolin ; “but I know nothing more ill-mannered than to 
tease people. If the old chateau please you, there is no 
disputing on taste, as the saying is, and I will have your 
baggage brought here. A cot shall be put in this closet 
for your maid. Meanwhile, I must speak seriously to 
you of your affairs, Mme. de Blanchemont. That is the 
first thing to do.” 

And, drawing up an arm-chair, Bricolin seated him¬ 
self and began thus: 

“ First, allow me to ask if you have of your own any 
other fortune than the estate of Blanchemont ? I think 
not, if I am rightly informed.” 

“I have nothing else of my own,” replied Marcelle 
quietly. 

“ And do you think that your son inherits much for¬ 
tune in right of his father? ” 

“ I know nothing about it. If M. de Blanchemont’s 
estates are as heavily burdened as mine — ” 

“ Ah ! you know nothing about it? You never attend, 
then, to your affairs? That is odd ! But all the nobility 
are so. Now as for me, I am obliged to know your situa¬ 
tion. It is my business and my interest. Well then, 
seeing that the late baron lived at a grand rate, and not 
foreseeing that he would die so young, it was necessary 
to assure myself of the holes he had made in his fortune, 
so as to be on my guard against loans which might in 
time have exceeded the value of this land, and left me 
without security. So I have had the proper people on 

5 


66 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


the lookout, and I know to a sou what remains, in these 
days of ours , to your little man.” 

“ Do me the pleasure to inform me, Monsieur Bricolin.” 

“ It is easily done, and you can verify it. If I am 
wrong by ten thousand francs, that is the outside. Your 
husband had about a million, and that remains in appear¬ 
ance, except that there are nine hundred and eighty or 
ninety thousand francs of debts to pay.” 

“ Then my son has nothing?” said Marcelle, disturbed 
by this new revelation. 

“As you say. With what you possess he will yet 
have three hundred thousand francs some day. It is still 
a pretty property if you will collect and free it. In land, 
it will bring in six or seven thousand francs of rent. If 
you live on the capital, it is still prettier.” 

“I do not intend to destroy my son’s only future for¬ 
tune. My duty is to free myself as much as possible 
from my present embarrassment.” 

“ In that case, see here; your estates and his bring 
you in two per cent. You are paying fifteen and twenty 
per cent, on your debts ; with the accumulated interest, 
you will soon greatly increase the capital of the debts. 
What will you do? ” 

“ I must sell, must I not?” 

“ As you will. I believe it is your best way, unless, 
nevertheless, as you have for some time the use of your 
son’s property, you should not prefer making your own 
profit of the disorder.” 

“No, M. Bricolin, I have no such intention.” 

“ But you might still draw upon this fortune for money, 
and as the boy has grandparents who will leave him 
something, he would not be bankrupt when he came of 
age.” 

“The argument is good,” said Marcelle, coldly, “ but 
I choose a very different course. I will sell everything, 
so that the liabilities of the inheritance may not exceed 
the capital; and as for my own property, I will free it, 
to provide means for the suitable education of my son.” 

“In this case, you wish to sell Blanchemont?” 

“ Yes, M. Bricolin, immediately.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


67 

“Immediately? I should think so. For one in your 
position, who wishes to clear one’s self, there is not a day 
to lose, since each day makes a hole in the purse. But 
do you think it an easy thing to sell an estate of such 
importance immediately, either as a whole, or in divis¬ 
ions? As well say that by to-morrow you could build a 
chateau like this, solid enough to last five or six hundred 
years. You must know that in these days of owrs, funds 
are invested only in manufactures, in railroads, and 
other great concerns, where there is cent, per cent, to 
lose or gain. As for real estate, it is the devil to get 
rid of. In our country, everybody wants to sell it, and 
nobody will buy, because they are tired of burying heavy 
capital in furrows where they reap only a slender income. 
Real estate is good for one who resides upon it, lives by 
it, and lays up money; that is the life of country folks 
like me. But it is a miserable revenue to you city people. 
And so you would see an estate worth fifty, or at most a 
hundred thousand, find eager purchasers among men like 
me. Our means are seldom equal to a purchase worth 
eight hundred thousand francs, and your Paris notary 
would have to look up a capitalist with more money 
than he knows what to do with. Do you imagine there 
are many such nowadays, when a thousand larger 
warnes are opeu, the exchange, the roulette table, railroad 
uionds, and government places? You must come across 
some timid old noble who had rather place his money 
at two per cent., for fear of a revolution, than to plunge 
into the splendid speculations which tempt everybody in 
these days of ours. And then a handsome house would 
be essential, where the old proprietor could finish his 
days. But you see your chateau ? I would not take it 
for the building materials. The rotten wood and broken 
stone would not pay for the trouble of pulling it down. 
So that you might, indeed, by advertising your estate, 
sell it entire any morning ; but you might as likely wait 
ten years, for though your notary should put upon his 
placards, according to custom, that it pays three and 
three and a half per cent., my lease will be seen, 


68 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


and show, that deducting the taxes, it does not pay 
two.” 

“ Your advances to M. de Blanchemont were, perhaps, 
a consideration in the drawing up of your lease ? ” said 
Marcelle, smiling. 

“Just so,” returned Bricolin, bluntly, “ and my lease 
is for twenty years ; one is gone — that leaves nineteen. 
You know all about it, you signed it. Perhaps you did 
not read it, after all. Faith ! that was your fault.” 

“True — I complain of no one. And it seems I can 
neither sell by wholesale or retail ? ” 

“By retail, you will sell well; you will sell dear ; but 
you will not be paid.” 

“How so?” 

“Because you will be forced to sell to a crowd of 
people, of whom the greater number will not be solvent; 
to peasants who, at the best, will pay by instalments of 
a sou at a time; and to beggars led away by the fancy 
of possessing a bit of land, as everybody does in these 
days of ours , and whom you will be obliged to turn 
out at the end of ten years, without recovering anything. 
You would not like to distrain them?” 

“ I could never bring myself to it. So, M. Bricolin, 
according to you, I can neither keep nor sell?” 

“If you will be moderate, not sell dear, and want 
ready money, you can sell to somebody I know.” 

“Who?” 

“Me.” 

“You, Monsieur Bricolin?” 

“Me, Nicolas Etienne Bricolin.” 

“In truth,” said Marcelle, who at this moment re¬ 
called some words she had heard drop from the Miller 
of Angibault, “I have heard of this before. And what 
are your proposals ? ” 

“ I will arrange everything with your mortgagees ; I 
will cut up the estate, sell to these, buy of those, keep 
what I like, and pay you the rest.” 

“And will you pay the creditors ready money too? 
You are immensely rich, M. Bricolin !” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


69 

“No, I shall make them wait, and, in one way or 
another, I will rid you of them.” 

“I thought they were all impatient to be paid; did 
you not tell me so?” 

“They would be exacting with you, but they will 
allow me credit.” 

“Right. Perhaps they consider me insolvent?” 

“ Possibly! In these days of ours , people are very 
suspicious. Let us see, Mme. de Blanchemont: you 
owe me one hundred thousand francs; I will give you 
two hundred and fifty thousand, and we are quits.” 

“That is to say, you would pay me two hundred and 
fifty thousand francs for what is worth three hundred 
thousand ? ” 

“ It is fair that you should give me this little bonus ; 
I pay ready money. You may say it is for my own 
advantage to avoid the interest, having the money by 
me; but it is as much for your advantage to have the 
cash in hand, for, if you wait, you will see neither sou 
nor centime of it.” 

“Thus you will profit by the embarrassment of my 
situation to take a sixth of what is left to me?” 

“I have a right to do so, and anybody else would ex¬ 
act more. You may be sure that I will attend to your 
interests as much as possible. Well, my first word is 
my last. You will consider it.” 

“Yes, M. Bricolin, it appears to me to require con¬ 
sideration.” 

“Faith ! I believe it does ! You must first make sure 
that I do not deceive you, and am not deceived myself, 
as to your position and property. You are here now ; 
you will take information, see everything for yourself; 
you can even visit your husband’s estates at Blanc ; and, 
when you are prepared, say in a month, you will give 
me your answer. Only, in thinking of my offer, you 
may establish your calculations with certainty upon this 
basis: you may indeed, in the first place, make a net 
sale at double the price I offer, but you will not get half 
of it, at least not these ten years, in which time the 
interest you have to pay will swallow it up; or, in the 


7 ° 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


second place, you may sell to me at the loss of a sixth, 
and receive within three months two hundred and fifty 
thousand francs in fine gold or silver, or good bank¬ 
notes, as you choose. There, I have done ! Now let us 
go back to the house, and in less than an hour dinner 
will be ready. You must make yourself entirely at home 
with us, you see, my lady baroness. We are on busi¬ 
ness, and unless you should call for the other 'pint stoup , 
it is a trifle.” 

Marcelle’s position with the Bricolins removed all 
scruple from her mind, and indeed made the acceptance 
of the invitation necessary. She promised to avail her¬ 
self of it, but desired to stay at the old chateau to write 
a letter in the intermediate hour, and M. Bricolin left 
her to send her servants and baggage. 





THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


71 


CHAPTER IX. 

AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND. 

TAURING the few moments that she was left alone, 
Marcelle made many rapid reflections, and soon 
felt that she derived an energy from love which nothing 
but this all-powerful inspiration could have supplied. 
She had been a little frightened by the first sight of the 
forlorn manor, the only dwelling she possessed; but 
when she learned that even this ruin would not long be 
hers, she smiled, and began to look upon it with simple 
and disinterested curiosity. The lordly escutcheon of 
her family was still uninjured over the huge chimuey- 
place. 

“And now,” she said to herself, “all will soon be 
broken between me and the past. Riches and nobility 
fade together, in these days of ours , as this Bricolin says. 
O my God ! be Thou praised for having made love for 
all time, and immortal as Thyself!” 

Suzette came, bringing her mistress’s writing mate¬ 
rials ; but as she opened them, Marcelle chanced to turn 
her eyes upon her waiting-maid, and could not help laugh¬ 
ing at the strange expression with which she contem¬ 
plated the bare walls of the old chateau. Suzette’s face 
grew darker, and her voice had a decided tone of revolt 
as she said : “Madame is determined to sleep here?” 

“You see that I am,” replied Marcelle, “and here is 
a closet for you, with a magnificent view and plenty of 
air.” 

“I am much obliged to madame, but madame may be 
sure that I shall not sleep there. I am frightened here 
in broad daylight, and what will it be at night? They 
say that he walks here, and I can easily believe it.” 


7 * 


THE MILLER OF ANGIE AULT. 


“Nonsense, Suzette. I will protect you from ghosts.” 

“ Madame will have the goodness to let one of the 
women on the farm sleep here, for I would set off on 
foot to get out of this dreadful country— ” 

“You are tragic, Suzette. I will not constrain you in 
the least, you shall sleep where you like ; but you must 
understand that if you are in the habit of refusing me 
your services, I shall be under the necessity of parting 
with you.” 

“If madame expects to stay long in this country, and 
live in this dungeon — ” 

“I am obliged to stay here a month, and perhaps 
more ; what will you decide ? ” 

“I will ask madame to please to send me to Paris, or 
to some other of her estates, for I can take my oath that 
I shall die here before three days.” 

“My dear Suzette,” replied Marcelle, with great gen¬ 
tleness, “ I have no other estate, and it is not likely that 
I shall ever again live in Paris. I have no longer a 
fortune, my child; and it is probable that I could not 
keep you much longer in my service. Since you dislike 
this place, it would be useless to keep you here for 
some days only. I will pay you your wages and your 
expenses. The patache which brought us has not gone 
back. I will give you a good recommendation, and 
my relations will help you to find a place.” 

“But how does madame expect that I should go off all 
alone? It was taking a deal of pains, truly, to bring me 
so far into this lost country.” 

“I did not know that I was ruined, and I have but 
just learned it,” replied Marcelle, calmly ; “make me no 
reproaches ; it is against my will that I have given you 
this vexation. Besides, you will not go alone ; Lapierre 
will return to Paris with you.” 

“Will madame dismiss Lapierre too?” asked Suzette, 
in consternation. 

“I do not dismiss Lapierre. I return him to my 
mother-in-law, who lent him to me, and will be glad to 
take back the good old man Go and dine, Suzette, and 
prepare to start.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


73 


Confounded by tlie composure and quiet sweetness of 
her mistress, Suzette burst into tears, and in a quick, 
and perhaps unreflective return of affection, besought 
that she would forgive and retain her. 

“No, my dear child/’ replied Marcelle, “your wages 
are henceforth beyond my means. I regret you, not¬ 
withstanding your whims, and perhaps you will also 
regret me, notwithstanding my failings. But it is a neces¬ 
sary sacrifice, and the present time is not one for weak¬ 
ness.” 

“And what will become of madame? without fortune, 
or servants, and with a young child, in such a desert? 
Poor little Edward ! ” 

“ Do not be troubled, Suzette ; you will certainly find a 
place with some one of my acquaintance. We shall meet 
again. You will see Edward again. Do not cry before 
him, I beg of you.” 

Suzette went out, but Marcelle had not yet dipped her 
pen in the ink, when the tall miller appeared before her, 
carrying Edward on one arm, and a carpet-bag on the 
other. 

“Ah !” said Marcelle, as he put the child in her lap, 
“you are always busy obliging me, M. Louis. I am 
very glad that you have not gone. I had scarcely thanked 
you, and I should have been sorry not to say good-by.” 

“No, lam not gone,” said the miller, “ and to say 
the truth, I am in no hurry to be off. But see, madam, 
if it is the same to you, do not call me mSnsieur. I am 
not a gentleman, and from you this ceremony annoys me. 
Call me Louis, or Grand-Louis, as everybody does.” 

“But I must remind you that this will be contrary to 
equality, and that after what you said this morning—” 

“This morning I was a brute, a horse, and a mill- 
horse, which is worse. I was prejudiced—on account 
of your nobility and your husband — how do I know ? 
If you had called me Louis, I believe I should have 
called you — what is your name?” 

“ Marcelle.” 

“I like that name, — Madame Marcelle! Ah, well! 


74 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL T. 


I will call you so; that will not remind me of the 
baron.” 

“But if I do not call you monsieur, you will call me 
plain Marcelle,” said Mme. de Blanchemont. 

“No, no, you are a woman, and one in a thousand — 
the devil take me ! Hold, I will not deny it, I have you 
in my heart, especially for the last few moments.” 

“Why for the last few moments, Grand-Louis?” 
asked Marcelle, who had begun to write, and only 
half heard the miller. 

“ Because while you were talking with your maid 
just now, I was on the stairs with your rogue of a boy, 
who played a thousand pranks to keep me from going on, 
and I heard all you said in spite of myself. I ask your 
pardon.” 

“ There is no harm in that,” said Marcelle; “ my 
position is no secret, since I tell it to Suzette ; and if it 
were, I am sure that a secret would be well placed in 
your hands.” 

“Your secrets would be placed in my heart,” re¬ 
turned the miller with emotion. “So then you did not 
know, till you came hgre, that you were ruined?” 

“ No, I did not know it. It was M. Bricolin who 
told me. All I expected were reparable losses.” 

“ And you are no more sorry than this?” 

Marcelle, who was now writing, did not reply; but, 
looking up af^er a moment, she saw Grand-Louis stand¬ 
ing before her, his arms crossed, and his eyes fixed upon 
her with a kind of simple enthusiasm and profound 
wonder. 

“ Is it so astonishing,” said she to him, “ to see a per¬ 
son lose her fortune without losing her senses ? Besides, 
have I not enough left to live upon?” 

“I know pretty well what you have left. I am per¬ 
haps better acquainted with your affairs than you are, for 
Father Bricolin loves to talk when he has drank his cup, 
and he tired me to death with all this business, when I 
did not care a straw for it. But it is all the same. A 
person who does not wince at seeing a million on one 
side and half a million on the other go from her— crac! 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


75 

— in a twinkling! I never saw such a thing, and I do 
not understand it now.” 

44 You would be still more puzzled if I told you that, 
as far as I am concerned, it gives me great pleasure.” 

44 Ah ! but on your son’s account! ” said the miller, 
lowering his voice, that the boy, playing in the next room, 
should not hear. 

“ I was somewhat alarmed at the first moment,” said 
Marcelle, U but I soon comforted myself. For a long 
time I have felt it a misfortune to be born rich, and be 
destined to idleness, and the hatred of the poor, and the 
selfish immunities of wealth. I have often been sorry 
not to be the daughter and mother of laborers. Now, 
Louis, I shall be one of the people, and men like you will 
be no longer suspicious of me.” 

44 You will not be one of the people,” said the miller; 
44 you have still a fortune which they would look upon a3 
immense, though it be not much for you. Besides, this 
little one has rich relations, who will not suffer him to be 
brought up in poverty. So these are all romances of 
yours, Madame Marcelle; but where the deuce did you 
get these ideas? You must needs be a saint, the devil 
take me ! It sounds very strange to hear you say such 
things when all other people of wealth only think of get¬ 
ting more. You are the first of your kind that I have 
seen. Are there other rich and noble persons at Paris 
who think as you do ? ” 

44 There are none, I must confess. But do not give me 
so much credit, Grand-Louis. The day may come when 
I can make you understand why I feel thus.” 

44 Excuse me, but I suspect.” 

44 No.” 

44 True, and the proof is that I cannot tell you. These 
are delicate matters, and you would tell me that I was 
too bold to question you upon them. Yet if you knew 
how shamefaced I am upon this chapter, and how cap¬ 
able of comprehending the pains of others! I will tell 
my own troubles. Yes, thunder ! that I will. Only you 
and my mother shall know. You will say some good 
words to me, which will restore my senses.” 


?6 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


44 And what if I told you, in my turn, that I suspect? ” 

44 You ought to suspect! That shows that love and 
money are mixed up in all these things.” 

44 I desire your confidence, Grand-Louis; but here 
comes my old Lapierre. We shall meet soon again, shall 
we not?” 

“We must,” said the miller, lowering his voice, “ for 
I have many things to ask you about your affairs with 
Bricolin. I am afraid the old fellow is too hard upon 
you ; and who knows but, peasant as I am, I may be of 
some service to you ? Will you treat me as a friend ? ” 

44 Certainly.” 

44 And you will do nothing without letting me know? ” 

44 That I promise you, my friend. Here is Lapierre.” 

4i Must I go?” 

44 Stay in the other room with Edward. I may have 
need of your advice, if you have some minutes more to 
spare.” 

44 It is Sunday — and then I would have if it were any 
other day.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


77 


CHAPTER X. 

CORRESPONDENCE. 

T APIERRE entered. Suzette had already told him 
everything. He was pale and trembling. Old, 
and incapable of laborious service, he was only a kind 
of escort for Marcelle on her journey. But without ever 
having expressed it, he was strongly attached to her, and 
notwithstanding the dislike which he, as well as Suzette, 
felt for the Black Valley and the old chateau, he refused 
to quit his mistress, and declared that he would serve her 
for whatever wages she should think proper to give him. 

Touched by his noble devotion, Marcelle affectionately 
pressed his hand, and overcame his resistance by proving 
to him that he could be more useful to her by returning to 
Paris than by staying at Blanchemont. She wished to 
dispose of her rich furniture, and Lapierre was well qual¬ 
ified to preside over the sale, receive the proceeds, and 
apply them to the settlement of what small running ac¬ 
counts Mme. de Blanchemont might have left at Paris. 
Upright and intelligent, Lapierre was flattered with play¬ 
ing the part of a confidential agent, and with rendering a 
service to the mistress from whom he reluctantly separ¬ 
ated. The arrangements for departure were then made. 
Here Marcelle, who thought of all the details of her sit¬ 
uation with remarkable coolness, summoned Grand-Louis, 
aud asked him if he thought that the carriage she had left 
at * * * could be sold in the neighborhood. 

“ So you are burning your ships?” answered the mil¬ 
ler. “ All the better for us! Perhaps you will stay 
here ; and I ask no better than to keep you. I often go 
to * * * on business, and to see one of my sisters, who 
is settled there, so that I know pretty much all that is 


7S 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAVLT. 


going on; and I see that for some years past all our 
bourgeois are used to fine carriages and all sorts of lux¬ 
ury. I know a man who thinks of sending for one to 
Paris. Now yours is already here, which will save him 
the freight, and with us, people are very careful in little 
savings, even while extravagant in great follies. Your 
carriage seemed to me good and handsome. How much 
is such a thing worth ? ” 

“ Two thousand francs.” 

“ Would you like me to go to * * * with M. Lapierre ? 
I will introduce him to the purchasers, and he will re¬ 
ceive the price ; for it is only strangers who can get ready 
money from us.” 

“If it were not for encroaching upon your time and 
kindness, you could do the business alone.” 

“ I will go with pleasure. But do not speak of it to 
M. Bricolin; he would want to buy it himself the next 
thing.” 

“ Well, why not?” 

“Oh, pshaw ! that would be all that is wanting to turn 
his — all his family’s heads! Besides, Bricolin would 
find some way to pay you only half its value. I will take 
charge of it.” 

“If so, will you bring me the money, if possible? for 
I expected to receive some here, iustead of which I shall 
doubtless have some to pay.” 

“Very well, we will start this evening; that will not 
disturb me, because it is Sunday; and if I do not come 
back to-morrow evening or next day morning with two 
thousand francs, call me a braggart.” 

“ How good you are ! ” said Marcelle, thinking of the 
rapacity of her wealthy farmer. 

“ Shall I bring you your trunks, too, that you left over 
there ? ” asked Grand-Louis. 

“ If you will be so good as to hire a cart and send 
them to me — ” 

“No, no ; where’s the use of hiring a man and horse? 
I will put Sophie to the wagon, and I will warrant that 
Mile. Suzette had rather ride in the open air on a bundle 
of straw, with a good driver like me, than with that crazy 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


79 


patachon in his salad-basket. Stay a minute! that is 
not all. You must have a maid ; M. Bricolin’s are too 
busy to amuse your rogue of a child from morning till 
night. Ah! if I had only time myself, we would lead 
a merry life together, for I adore children, and this one 
has more wit than I! I will lend you little Fanchon, 
my mother’s maid-servant. We can do without her very 
well for a while. She will guard him like the apple of 
her eye, and will do all you bid her. Her only fault is 
that she will say 4 Ma’am f* three times, at every word 
you speak to her. But what would you have? She 
thinks it polite, and would expect a scolding if she did 
not pretend to be deaf.” 

44 You are my good angel,” said Marcelle ; 44 and in my 
very embarrassing situation, it is wonderful that I should 
find such a kind heart to help me.” 

“ Bah! bah ! these are little friendly services, which 
you will return in some way or other. You have already 
done me a great kindness, without suspecting it, since 
you came here.” 

44 How so?” 

44 We will talk of it by-and-by,” said the miller with a 
mysterious look, and with a smile in which the earnest¬ 
ness of his passion made a strange contrast with the 
gavety of his character. 

The departure of the miller and the domestics having 
been fixed, by common consent, for the same evening, in 
the cool , as Grand-Louis said, Marcelle, having only a 
few moments before the dinner-hour, wrote in haste the 
two following letters: 

Letter I. 

44 Marcelle, Baroness of Blancliemont , to the Countess of 
Blanchemont , her mother-in-law: 

44 Dear Mamma, — I address myself to you as the 
bravest of women and the best head in the family, to 
announce to you, and to desire you to announce to the 
worthy count and to the rest of our dear relatives, a piece 
of news which will, I am sure, affect you more than it 


8o 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


does me. You have too often shared with me your ap¬ 
prehensions, and we have talked too much on the subject 
now before me, for you not to understand me at the first 
hint. Of Edward's fortune , there is nothing , absolutely 
nothing , left. Of mine, there remains two hundred and 
fifty thousand or three hundred thousand francs. I still 
know my situation only through a man who would be in¬ 
terested in exaggerating, if the thing were possible, the 
disaster, but who has too much sense to attempt to de¬ 
ceive me, when to-morrow, or the day after, I can pro¬ 
cure my own information. I send good Lapierre back 
to you, and need not urge you to take him again. You 
gave him to me for the purpose of keeping some order 
and economy in my household expenses. He did his best; 
but of what avail was the domestic saving, when the pro¬ 
digality without was so uncontrolled and boundless? 
Certain reasons, which he will himself explain to you, 
oblige me to hasten his departure, and this makes me 
write to you so hastily, and without entering into details, 
of which I am not yet entirely mistress, and which you 
shall have later. I depend upon Lapierre’s seeing you 
alone and giving you this, so that you may have some 
hours, or days, as you need, to prepare the count for this 
revelation. You will soften it to him by repeating what 
you know of me, how indifferent I am to the enjoyment 
of wealth, and how utterly incapable of saying evil of 
any person or anything in the past. How can I help 
pardoning him who was so unhappy as not to live long 
enough to repair his errors ? Dear mamma, let his mem¬ 
ory receive full and easy absolution from your heart and 
mine! 

“ Now, two words about Edward and myself, who are 
only one in this stroke of destiny. I shall have enough 
left, I hope, to provide for his support and education. 
He is not old enough to mourn over losses of which he is 
ignorant, and of which he had better be left ignorant, as 
far as possible, till he is capable of understanding them. 
Is it not fortunate for him that this change in his circum¬ 
stances has happened before a luxurious life had become 
a necessity to him? If it be a misfortune to be reduced 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


81 


to mere necessaries, (and it is not so in my eyes,) lie will 
not feel it, and, accustomed henceforth to a modest way 
of life, he will think himself sufficiently rich. Since he 
was destined to fall into moderate circumstances, it is a 
kindness of Providence to bring him to them at an age 
when the lesson, far from being bitter, can be only useful 
to him. You will tell me that other inheritances are in 
store for him. I know nothing of these possibilities, and 
have no desire to profit by them. I should refuse almost 
as an insult the sacrifices which his family might impose 
upon themselves to procure me what is called an honor¬ 
able life. In the apprehension of what I have just learned, 
I had already formed a plan of conduct. I am now con¬ 
firmed in it, and nothing in the world shall make me de¬ 
part from it. I am resolved to establish myself in the 
depths of the country, where I will accustom my boy’s 
first years to a simple and laborious life, and where he 
will have neither the sight, nor the contact of others’ 
riches, to destroy the good effect of my example and my 
lessons. I do not give up the hope of sometimes present¬ 
ing him to you, and you will take pleasure in seeing a 
robust and merry child, instead of the frail, dreamy crea¬ 
ture for whose existence we never ceased to tremble. I 
know your rights over him, and the respect I owe to your 
desires and your advice; but I hope that you will not 
censure my project, and that you will leave to me the 
guidance of a childhood in which a mother’s assiduous 
cares and the healthful country influences will be of more 
use than superficial lessons from a fat-salaried professor, 
gymnasium exercises, and drives to the Bois de Boulogne. 
Do not be concerned as to me ; I have no regrets for my 
easy life and its indolent appliances. I love the country 
passionately, and I shall occupy the long hours of which 
the world will no longer rob me, in instructing myself, 
that I may teach my son. You have always had some 
confidence in me, and the time is come when I must ask 
for entire trust. I venture to expect it, knowing that you 
have only to question your own energetic soul and deeply 
maternal heart to comprehend my designs and resolutions. 

•‘All this may meet with opposition in the minds of 
6 


82 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


the family, but when you have once pronounced me right, 
all will agree with you. Thus I place our present and 
our future in your hands, and I am, with devotion, ten¬ 
derness, and respect, 

“ Yours for life, Marcelle.” 

A postscript followed relative to Suzette, and a request 
to have the family man of business sent to Blanc, to verify 
the ruin of the property there, and take prompt measures 
for its settlement. As to her personal affairs, Marcelle 
could and would arrange them herself, with the assistance 
of competent men on the spot. 

The second letter was addressed to Henri Lemor. 

Letter II. 

u What joy and happiness, Henri! I am ruined. You 
will never more reproach me for my wealth, never more 
hate my gilded chains. I am again a woman whom you 
can love without remorse, and who can make no sacrifices 
for you. My son has no rich inheritance, at least for the 
present. I have henceforth the right to bring him up in 
your views, to make a man of him, to confide his educa¬ 
tion, and to deliver his entire being to you. I will not 
deceive you, we may have a little struggle with his father’s 
family, who, in their blind tenderness and aristocratic 
pride, would restore him to the world by enriching him 
in spite of me. But we will triumph by means of gentle¬ 
ness, a little tact, and a good deal of firmness. I shall 
keep far enough from their influence to paralyze it, and 
we will enfold the development of this young spirit with 
a sweet mystery. It shall be the childhood of Jupiter in 
the recesses of the sacred grottos. And when he leaves 
this divine retreat to try his strength, when he is tempted 
by wealth, we shall have made his soul strong against 
worldly seduction, and the corruption of gold. Henri, I 
am cradled in the sweetest hopes ; do not destroy them 
by cruel doubts, and scruples which I should now cal! 
pusillanimous. You owe me your support and your pro¬ 
tection, now that I am about to isolate myself from a 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


S3 

kind and solicitous family, which I resist and leave for 
this only reason, that they do not share your principles. 
What I wrote to you two days since, on quitting Paris, is 
thus fully and easily confirmed by this note. I do not call 
you to me now, I ought not; and prudence, too, exacts 
that I should remain without seeing you, long enough to 
exclude the possibility of any one’s attributing my self- 
imposed exile to my feeling for you. I do not tell you 
what retreat I shall choose, I am myself ignorant. But 
in a year, Ilenri, dear Henri, in a year from the fifteenth 
of August, you will rejoin me from wheresoever I call 
you. Till then, unless you share my confidence in my¬ 
self, I had rather that you should not write to me — but 
shall I have strength to live a year without knowing any¬ 
thing of you ? No, nor you either. Write me tw'o words, 
only to say, I live and I love l And direct to the care of 
my faithful old Lapierre, at the Hotel de Blanchemont. 
Adieu, Henri! Oh ! if you could read my heart, and see 
how much more worthy I am than you think ! Edward 
is well, and does not forget you. He alone will speak to 
me of you now. “ M. b.” 

Having sealed these two letters, Marcelle, whose only 
remaining vanity lay in the angelic beauty of her boy, ar¬ 
ranged Edward’s dress a little, and crossed the farm-yard. 
Dinner was waiting for her, and, in her honor, served in 
the parlor, since there was no other eating-room save the 
kitchen, which Mme. Bricolin, who herself cooked with 
the help of her mother-in-law and her servant, found 
most convenient, and where there was no danger of in¬ 
juring the furniture. Marcelle soon perceived this varia¬ 
tion from the habits of the family. Mme. Bricolin, 
whose civility w r as instinctively tinged with that ill-humor 
which is the essence of ill-breeding, took pains to make 
her aware of it, by continually asking pardon for the poor 
attendance on table, and the confusion of her servants. 
Marcelle requested and insisted that they should hence¬ 
forth resume their regular customs, declaring, with a gay 
smile, that she would go and dine at the mill of Angibault 
if they treated her ceremoniously. 


8 4 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“ And speaking of the mill,” said Mme. Bricolin, after 
some strained expressions of politeness, “ I must scold 
M. Bricolin. Ah, there he is ! Now say, M. Bricolin, 
hast thou lost thy wits, to ask this miller to dine with us 
on a day when the lady baroness does us the honor to ac¬ 
cept our repast ? ” 

“ Ah, the devil! I never thought,” answered the far¬ 
mer, candidly; “ or rather — I thought when I invited 
Grand-Louis, that madame would not do us that honor. 
My lord baron always refused, thou knowest; he was 
served in his chamber, which, by the way, was very in¬ 
convenient— in short, Tfeibaude, if it annoys madame to 
eat with the boy, thou shalt tell him so; thou dost not 
keep thy tongue in velvet. I will have nothing to do with 
it; I made the folly — it is not my business to mend it.” 

u And it is mine, as usual,” said sharp Mme. Bricolin, 
who, as the eldest of the Thibault girls, retained her 
family name with a feminine termination, according to 
the ancient usage of the country. “ Come, I will pack 
thy fine Louis home again ! ” 

“You would give me much pain by so doing, and I 
believe I should go away myself,” said Mme. de Blanche- 
mont in a firm and even severe tone, which imposed re¬ 
spect on the dame; “I breakfasted this morning with 
this young man, at his own house, and found him so 
obliging, so polite, and so amiable, that I should really be 
sorry to dine without him this afternoon.” 

“ Indeed !” said the lovely Rose, who had listened to 
Marcelle with much attention, and whose eyes expressed 
mingled surprise and pleasure; but she lowered them 
and blushed, on meeting the scrutinizing and menacing 
look of her mother. 

“ It shall be as madame pleases,” said Mme. Bricolin ; 
and she added, in an under tone, to her servant, who was 
favored with her confidential observations when she was 
angry: 

“ See what it is to be a handsome man! ” 

La Chounette (diminutive for Fanchon) smiled with 
a knowing look, which made her uglier than usual. She 
in reality thought the miller a very handsome man, and 


THE MILLER OF ANG/BAULT. 


85 

had a grudge against him for not making love to her¬ 
self. 

“Come then!” said M. Bricolin, u the miller shall 
dine with us. Madame is right not to be proud. It is 
always the way to make friends. Rose, go and call 
Grand-Louis in the court. Tell him the soup is on the 
table. I should have been sorry to affront the boy. Do 
you know, my lady baroness, that I have reason to stand 
up for this miller ? He is the only one who does not keep 
double measure, and does not change the grain. Yes, 
the only one in the country, the devil take me! Each 
one of them is a greater thief than the other; besides, 
the country proverb says, ‘Catch a miller, catch a thief/ 
I have tried them all, and find only this one who does not 
make false accounts and vile mixtures. And then he is 
attentive in every way to us. He never grinds my wheat 
on stones that have just been used for rye or barley. He 
knows that it spoils the flour, and makes it dark. He 
piques himself on pleasing me, because he knows that I 
depend on having beautiful bread on my table. That is 
my one vanity! I am mortified if any one comes here 
and does not say, ‘ Ah ! what fine bread ! It takes you, 
Master Bricolin, to raise such grain/ ” 

Your bread is certainly magnificent,” said Marcelle, 
as much to praise the miller as to satisfy M. Bricolin’s 
vanity. 

“ Dear heart! what a fuss for a speck more or less in 
the bread, and for a bushel more or less a week !” cried 
Mme. Bricolin. “ When we have millers much nearer, 
aod a mill at the foot of the terrace, to do business with 
a man who lives a league off! ” 

“What is it to thee?” said her spouse, “since he 
comes for the sacks and brings them back without taking 
a handful beyond his toll ? * Besides, he has a fine, good 


♦The millers in the Black Valley are never paid; they take 
their toll of the corn with more or less fidelity, and are gener¬ 
ally more honest than M. Bricolin allows. When they have 
much custom, they make more than their living by their business, 
and can open a small trade in grain. 


86 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


mill, two great new wheels, a famous reservoir, and never 
wants for water. It is pleasant never to wait.” 

“ And then, as he comes so far,” said the dame, “you 
always think yourself obliged to ask him to dinner or 
supper. Fine economy ! ” 

The entrance of the miller put an end to this conjugal 
dispute. M. Bricolin contented himself, when his wife 
scolded, with shrugging his shoulders, and talking a little 
quicker than usual. He forgave her crabbed humor 
because her active and parsimonious management was of 
great use to him. 

“ Come, Rose,” cried Mme. Bricolin to her daughter, 
who returned with Grand-Louis, “ we are waiting for 
thee to go to table. Thou mightst have sent for the mil¬ 
ler by La Chounette, instead of running thyself.” 

“ My father bid me,” said Rose. 

“ And I am sure you would not have come without,” 
said the miller, in a low voice, to the young girl. 

“ Is that my thanks for being scolded on your account ? ” 
replied Rose, in the same tone. 

Marcelle did not hear what they said, but these stolen 
words exchanged between them, the blushes of Rose and 
the emotion of Grand-Louis, confirmed her in her sus¬ 
picion of the cause of Mme. Bricolin’s aversion for the 
poor fellow ; the fair Rose was the object of the thoughts 
of the Miller of Angibault. 




THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


37 


CHAPTER XI, 


DINNER AT THE FARM. 


r)ESIROUS to advance the interests nearest the heart 
of her new friend, and seeing no danger in it for 
Mile. Bricolin, since her father and grandmother ap¬ 
peared to favor Grand-Louis, Mme. de Blanchemont took 
pains to make him talk during the meal, and to turn the 
conversation upon subjects on which his information and 
intelligence made him very superior to all the Bricolin 
family, perhaps even to the charming Rose. Upon agricul¬ 
ture, considered as a natural science rather than as a com¬ 
mercial speculation; politics, considered as an endeavor 
after happiness and human justice; upon religion and 
morals, Grand Louis’s ideas were elementary, but just, 
lofty, stamped with good sense and a perspicacity and 
nobleness of spirit, never before brought to light at the 
farm. The Bricolins had only coarsely vulgar subjects 
of conversation, and all their wit was spent in scanda¬ 
lous and uncharitable talk about their neighbors. Grand- 
Louis, liking neither commonplaces nor scandal, spoke 
little when there, and had never manifested his powers. 
M. Bricolin had settled it that, like all handsome men, 
he was dull; and Rose, who had always seen her lover 
fearful and depressed, that is, shamefaced and bashful, 
could only excuse his want of spirit by boasting of his 
excellent heart. Thus they were at first amazed at 
seeing Mme. de Blanchemont talk with him from choice, 
and then still more amazed to hear him speak so 
well. M. Bricolin, who, unsuspicious of his love for 
his daughter, listened to him with pleasure, was five 
or six times so much astonished as to strike on the 
table and cry: 


88 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


“ Thou knowest that, too! Where the devil didst 
thou fish that up?” 

u Bah ! in the river ! ” gayly returned Grand-Louis. 

Mme. Bricolin fell by degrees into sullen silence, as 
she saw her enemy’s success, and she determined to warn 
M. Bricolin that very evening of the discovery she had, 
or thought she had made, respecting the sentiments of 
this peasant for his daughter. 

As to the old mother, she understood nothing of the 
conversation, but she thought that the miller talked like 
a book, because he uttered several sentences together 
without hesitation or stammering. Rose did not appear 
to listen, but she lost not a word, and involuntarily her 
eyes were fixed on those of Grand-Louis. There was a 
fifth Bricolin, to whom Marcelle paid little attention. 
This was the old father Bricolin, dressed, like his wife, in 
peasant costume, who ate much, said nothing, and did 
not seem to think much more. He was almost deaf, 
almost blind, and seemed entirely idiotic. His old wife 
had led him to table like a child. She was very busy 
about him, filled his plate and his cup, took away the 
crumb of his bread, because he had lost all his teeth, 
and his hard and insensible gums could crunch only the 
hardest crusts, but never spoke to him, as if that had 
been lost pains. Nevertheless, when he sat down she 
made him understand that he must take off his hat, out 
of respect to Mme. de Blanchemont. He obeyed, but 
without appearing to know why, and resumed it imme¬ 
diately ; a liberty which M. Bricolin, his son, after the 
country fashion, also permitted himself. The miller had 
not abstained from this custom in the morning at the 
mill; but now he slyly thrust his cap into his pocket, 
divided between a new instinct of deference that Mar¬ 
celle had inspired in him towards women, and the fear 
of seeming to play the puppy for the first time in his 
life. 

Meanwhile, though admiring what he called the fine 
learning of the tall miller, M. Bricolin soon found him¬ 
self of a different opinion in everything. In agricul¬ 
ture, he conceived that there was nothing new to try, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


s 9 

that philosophers had never made any discoveries, and 
that innovation always led to ruin; that ever since the 
world was, up to these days of ours , people had always 
done the same, and never would do better. 

“Good!” said the miller; “nevertheless, the first 
who did what we do now, they who yoked cattle to open 
the earth and sow the seed, they did something new, and 
could they have been stopped by persuading them that 
land which had never been tilled could never become 
fertile ? It is so in politics; now say, M. Bricolin, if 
you had been told a hundred years ago that you should 
pay no more tithes nor due-moneys, that the convents 
should be destroyed — ” 

“Bah ! bah ! I might not have believed it; very true, 
but that happened because it was to happen. All is for 
the best in these days of ours . Everybody is free to make 
his fortune, and nothing will ever be invented better than 
that. ,, 

“ And the poor, the lazy, the weak, the stupid, what 
do you make of them ? ” 

“I make nothing of them, for they are good for 
nothing. The worse for them ! ” 

“And if you were one of them, M. Bricolin, which 
God forbid! (you are very far from it,) would you say, 
4 the worse for me’? No, no, you were not saying what 
you thought when you said, ‘ the worse for them ! * You 
have too much heart and too much religion for that.” 

“ I! Religion? I laugh at religion, and so dost thou. I 
can see it is trying to come back, but I am not in the 
least concerned. Our curate is a good fellow, and I do 
not interfere with him. If he were a bigot, I should soon 
give him his walking ticket. Who believes in all such 
stuff in these days of ours ?” 

“And your wife, and your mother, and your daugh¬ 
ter, do they call it stuff?” 

“Oh, it pleases them and amuses them. Women seem 
to need it.” 

“And we peasants,too, we are like women, we need a 
religion.” 


9 ° 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“Well! you have one to your hand ; go to mass—I do 
not hinder you, if you do not force me to go.” 

“ Even that might happen, if the religion that we have 
should again become fanatic and persecuting, as she has' 
been so much and so often.” 

“ It is good for nothing then? Let it fall. I can do 
very well without it.” 

“ But since we others must positively have one, must 
we have another?” 

“ Another, another! The devil! how thou goest on ! 
Make one thyself! ” 

“ I would have one to keep men from hating, fearing, 
and injuring one another.” 

“ That would indeed be something new! I should 
fancy one like that, which would prevent my harvesters 
from stealing my corn at night, and my day-laborers from 
taking three hours at noon to eat their soup.” 

“ That would be, if you had a religion which com¬ 
manded you to make them as happy as yourself.” 

“ Grand-Louis, you have true religion in your heart,” 
said Marcelle. 

“ He has indeed ! ” said Rose, warmly. 

M. Bricolin dared not reply. He was determined to 
gain Mme. de Blanchemont’s confidence, and not to give 
her a bad opinion of him. Grand-Louis, who saw Rose's 
sudden impulse, glanced a look of burning gratitude at 
Marcelle. 

The sun was low, and the plentiful dinner drew towards 
an end. M. Bricolin, leaning heavily in his chair, thanks 
to an ample meal and copious draughts, was disposed to 
betake himself to his favorite pleasure, of drinking coffee 
“ laced ” with brandy, and varied by liqueurs, during two 
or three hours of the evening. But Grand-Louis, upon 
whom he reckoned for company, left the table, and went 
to prepare for departure. Mme. de Blanchemont went 
also to receive the adieux of her servants, and pay them 
their wages. She gave Lapierre her letter to her mother- 
in-law, and, taking the miller aside, she intrusted him 
with that addressed to Henri, requesting him to take it 
himself to the post. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


9 l 

“Make yourself easy,” said he, comprehending that 
here was some mystery. “It shall not leave my hand 
till it falls into the box, and no one shall see it, not even 
your servants, I suppose ? ” 

“Thanks, my kind Louis.” 

“Thanks! You say thanks to me? Me, who ought 
to say it on my knees to you? No ; you do not know 
what I owe you ! I am going by our house, and in two 
hours our little Fanchon shall be with you. She is 
neater and gentler than that great Chounette here.” 

When Louis and Lapierre were gone, Marcelle felt for 
an instant mentally distressed at finding herself alone, at 
the mercy of the Bricolin family. It made her melan¬ 
choly ; and, taking Edward by the hand, she slipped out 
and gained a little wood which she saw on the opposite 
side of the meadow. It was still day, and the sun 
sinkiug behind the old chateau, threw far along the 
gigantic shadows of its tall towers. She had not gone 
far before she was joined by Rose, who felt drawn 
towards her, and whose sweet face was the only agree¬ 
able object that her eyes could have met at this moment. 

“I should like to show you the warren,” said the 
damsel; “it is my favorite spot, and I am sure you will 
like it.” 

“Whatever it be, I shall think it pleasant in your 
company,” replied Marcelle, passing her arm familiarly 
through Rose’s. 

The ancient manorial park of Blanchemont, destroyed 
in the time of the revolution, was thenceforth enclosed 
by a deep ditch filled with running water, and by tall quick- 
set hedges, where Rose left a piece of the trimming of her 
muslin dress, with the haste and indifference of a girl 
whose wardrobe is well filled. The venerable stumps of 
the old oaks were covered with young shoots, and the 
■warren had become only a close coppice, in which the 
axe had spared some ancient lords of the soil, who now 
seemed like dignified ancestors extending their robust 
and gnarled arms over a fresh and numerous posterity. 
Pleasant paths went up and down over the natural 
irregularities of the soil, and wound under the close, 


9 2 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


low foliage. It was a mysterious wood, where one 
might wander freely, leaning on a lover’s arm. Marcelle 
drove away this thought from her beating heart, and 
fell into a revery as she listened to the songs of the 
nightingales, linnets, and thrushes who peopled the de¬ 
serted and quiet grove. 

The only avenue not overgrown by the coppice was at 
the farther edge of the wood, and served as a wagon- 
road for the farm. Marcelle drew near it with Rose, 
and her child ran before. Suddenly he paused, and 
came slowly back, doubtful, serious, and pale. 

“What is there?” asked his mother, accustomed to 
interpret all his impressions, and seeing that he was 
strugglingT>etween fear and curiosity. 

“ There is an ugly woman down there,” answered 
Edward. 

“ She may be ugly and good too,” returned Marcelle , 
“Lapierre is very good, but he is not handsome.” 

“ Oh, Lapierre is not ugly !” exclaimed Edward, who, 
like all children, admired those whom he loved. 

“Take my hand,” said Marcelle, “and we will go 
and see this ugly woman.” 

“No, no, do not go there, it is of no use,” said Rose, 
in a sad and embarrassed manner, but without any sign 
of fear. “I did not think that she was there.” 

“I wish to accustom Edward to conquer his fears,” 
said Marcelle to her in a low voice. 

Rose dared not withstand her, and she went on. But 
in the midst of the avenue she stopped, struck with a 
kind of terror at the sight of the singular being who was 
slowly advancing towards her. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


93 


CHAPTER XII. 

CASTLES IN THE AIR. 

TI>ENEATH the majestic arch formed by the tall oaks 
on either side of the avenue, which were touched 
with strong lights and deep shadows by the setting sun, 
there walked with measured steps a woman, or rather a 
nameless being, who seemed buried in stern meditation. 
The face was one of those so denaturalized and brutified 
by misfortune, as to show neither age nor sex. Still 
there had been a certain nobleness in the regular fea¬ 
tures, not entirely destroyed even by the terrible ravages 
of grief and disease, and the long black hair which 
streamed dishevelled from under her white cap, over 
which was set a man’s straw hat, torn and broken, gave 
a sinister cast to the narrow and bronzed physiognomy 
which it shadowed. Of this face, worn by fever and 
yellow as saffron, nothing could be seen but two large 
black glaring eyes, whose preoccupied gaze was seldom 
met, a straight and well-formed, though somewhat too 
prominent, nose, and a livid and halt-open mouth. Her 
garments, disgustingly dirty, belonged to the bourgeois 
class ; a poor gown of yellow stuff, half unfastened and 
trailing on one side, clung around a shapeless form whose 
high and constantly bent shoulders had acquired a size 
d^proportioned to the rest of the emaciated body. Her 
lean and swarthy legs were bare, and filthy and ragged 
shoes ill defended her feet against the flints and thorns, 
to which she seemed, nevertheless, insensible. She walked 
slowly, her head bent forward, her eyes fixed on the 
ground, and her hands busied with twisting and squeezing 
a bloody handkerchief. 

She came straight towards Mine, de Blanchcinout, 


94 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


who, concealing her terror that it might not infect Ed¬ 
ward, waited with dismay to see whether she would 
take the right or left, that she might pass her. But 
the spectre, for this creature resembled an ill-boding 
apparition, came on, without appearing to notice any 
one, aud, judging by her face, which did not indicate 
idiocy, but rather leaden despair, she received no impres¬ 
sion from external objects. Still, when she reached the 
shadow which Marcelle cast at her feet, she stopped 
short, as if she had met an insurmountable obstacle, and 
suddenly turning her back, resumed her perpetual and 
monotonous walk. 

“It is poor Bricoline,” said Rose, without lowering 
her voice, though she was near enough to hear. “ It is 
my eldest sister, who is crazy. She is not thirty, though 
she looks like an old woman, and it is twelve years 
since she has spoken a word to us, or appeared to hear 
our voices. We do not know whether she is deaf. She 
is not dumb, for she sometimes speaks when she thinks 
herself alone, but there is no sense in what she says. 
She always wishes to be alone, and she is not ill- 
tempered unless she is crossed. Do not be afraid of her; 
if you do not seem to see her, she will not even look 
at you. It is only when we trv to make her a little 
cleaner that she gets angry, and struggles and screams 
as if we were hurting her.” 

“ Mamma,” said Edward, trying to conceal his fear, 
“take me back to the house; I am hungry.” 

“How shouldst thou be hungry? thou has just left 
the table,” said Marcelle, who felt as ready as the boy 
to quit this melancholy spectacle. “Thou art surely 
mistaken ; come into another path ; perhaps there is too 
much sun here, and the heat tires thee.” 

“ Yes, yes, let us go back to the grove,” said Rose ; 
“ this is a sad sight. There is no risk of her following 
us, and besides, when she is in an alley, she seldom 
leaves it; you can see in this how the grass is worn 
away in the middle, she has walked to and fro so often 
in the same place. Poor sister ! such a pity ! She was 
so handsome and so sweet! I remember when she car- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT . 


95 


r:ed me in her arms and took care of me as you do of 
this pretty child. But since her misfortune she does not 
know me, and does not even remember that I exist.” 

'■‘'Ah! my dear Mile. Rose, this is indeed a terrible 
misfortune. And what was the cause of it? Was it 
grief or sickness? Does any one know?” 

u Alas ! yes, we know well. But we do not speak of 
it.” 

“ I beg your pardon, if the interest I feel for you has 
led me to ask an intrusive question.” 

“ Oh ! it is another thing with you, madam. You seem 
to me so kind that one would never feel humiliated before 
you. So 1 will tell you, between ourselves, that my poor 
sister became crazy in consequence of being crossed in 
love. She loved a young man who was very good and 
true, but had no money, and our parents would not con¬ 
sent to the marriage. The young man enlisted, and was 
killed at Algiers. Poor Bricoline was always sad and 
silent after his departure ; they thought that time would 
cure her vexation and disappointment, but she heard of 
his death in too cruel a manner. My mother, thinking 
that if she lost all hope she would recover herself, told 
her this bad news, suddenly and harshly, at a time when 
such emotion might have been fatal. My sister did not 
seem to hear, and answered nothing. It was just supper¬ 
time ; I remember it as well as if it were yesterday, though 
I was very young. She let fall her fork, and looked at 
my mother more than a quarter of an hour without say¬ 
ing a word, without closing her eyes, and in so strange a 
way that my mother was frightened, and cried : 4 Would 
not one say she was going to eat me?’ 4 You will come 
to that pass,’ said my grandmother, who is an excel¬ 
lent woman, and would have had Bricoline marry her 
lover ; 4 you will torment her so that you will make her 
crazy/ My grandmother judged but too well. My sister 
was crazy, and from that day she has never eaten with 
us. She touches nothing that is given her, and lives al¬ 
ways by herself, avoiding us all, and subsisting on old 
scraps that she picks up in the kitchen when no one is by. 
Sometimes she throws herself upon a fowl, kills it, tears 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


9 6 

it with her fingers, and devours it all bloody. I am sure 
that is what she has just done, for there is blood upon her 
hands and kerchief. At other times, she pulls vegetables 
in the garden and eats them raw. In short, she lives 
like a savage, and frightens everybody. This is what 
comes from being crossed in love; and my poor parents 
are heavily punished for misunderstanding their daugh¬ 
ter’s heart. Yet they never say what they would do if it 
were to be done again.” 

Marcelle thought that Rose alluded to herself; and wish¬ 
ing to know how far she returned Grand-Louis’s love, she 
encouraged her confidence by a gentle and affectionate 
manner. They had reached the opposite border of the 
warren, farthest from the madwoman’s walk ; Marcelle 
felt more easy, and little Edward had already forgotten 
his fear, and resumed his frolic race around his mother. 

“ Your mother does seem to me rather strict,” said 
Mme. de Blanchemont to her companion ; “ but M. Bric- 
olin looks as if he were more indulgent to you.” 

Rose shook her head. “ Papa makes less noise about 
it than mamma,” she said. “ He is more lively and ca¬ 
ressing ; he makes more presents, pays more amiable at¬ 
tentions, and indeed he loves his children dearly, the good 
father ! But in what concerns fortune, and what he calls 
suitability, his will is perhaps more immovable than my 
mother’s. I have heard him say a hundred times that 
one were better dead than poor, and that he would kill 
me rather than consent — ” 

u To marry you according to your choice?” said Mar¬ 
celle, seeing that Rose was unable to express herself. 

“Oh ! that was not what he said,” returned Rose, with 
a little prudish air. “ I have never thought of marriage, 
and I do not yet know but that my choice would be his. 
But, in short, he is very ambitious for me, and torments 
himself already with the fear of finding no son-in-law 
worthy of him. For this reason I shall not be married 
so soon, and I am glad of it, for I have no desire to leave 
my home, notwithstanding the little vexations I have from 
mamma.” 

Marcelle thought Rose not quite honest in this last dec- 


THE MILLER OF A NG IB AULT. 


97 

laration ; but not wishing to force her confidence, she ob¬ 
served that Rose herself was doubtless very ambitious. 

“Oh ! not at all! ” answered Rose, openly. “ I have 
more money than I need or care for; and though my 
father says that as we are five children (for I have two 
sisters and a brother married), each one’s share will not 
be so very large, it is all the same to me. My tastes are 
simple, and I see plainly that, as things go on, the richer 
people are so much the poorer also.” 

“How so?” 

“ At least it is true of us farmers. You of the nobility 
make splendid use of your fortunes : you are even accused, 
among us, of extravagance ; and when we see so many old 
families ruined, we say that we will be wiser, and care¬ 
fully — what shall I say ? — passionately set about found¬ 
ing a race on wealth. One should always double and 
triple all that one holds ; at least, this is what my father, 
my mother, my sisters and their husbands, my aunts and 
my cousins, have repeated to me in every key ever since 
I was born. And so, not to delay in growing rich, they 
endure all sorts of privations. Now and then a show of 
expense is made before others ; but in the private house¬ 
keeping they would, as the saying is, shave an egg. They 
are afraid of spoiling their furniture, their clothes, and of 
making themselves too comfortable. At least, this is my 
mother’s system, and it is rather hard to save all one’s 
life, and deprive one’s self of all pleasure when one is quite 
able to command it. And when it is necessary to econ¬ 
omize in the comfort, pay, and appetite of others, and to 
be hard upon workpeople, it becomes very sad. As to 
me, if I were my own mistress I would refuse nothing 
to myself nor to anybody else. I would live up to my 
income, and perhaps the capital would be none the worse 
for it; for people would love me, and work for me with 
zeal and fidelity. Was not that what Grand-Louis said 
at dinner? He was right.” 

“ My dear Rose, he was right in theory.” 

“ In theory?” 

“ I mean that his generous ideas apply to a state of 
society which does not yet exist, although sure to come in 

7 


9 S 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


time. As to actual practice, I mean as to what can he 
realized now, you are much mistaken if you think that a 
few good people, in the midst of so many who are bad, 
could expect to be understood, loved, or rewarded in this 
life.” 

“ I am astonished at what you say. I thought that you 
would agree with me. Then you think it right to crush 
those who labor for our advantage ? ” 

u I do not agree with you, Rose, and yet I am very far 
from thinking as you suppose. I would have no one com¬ 
pelled to labor for another, but that each should work for 
all, and in this way for God and for himself at once.” 

“ And how could that be done ? ” 

“ The explanation would be too long, my child, and I 
fear I should give but a poor one. Meanwhile, till the 
future of my imagination become a reality, I regard it 
as a great misfortune to be rich, and for my part am very 
happy to be so no longer.” 

“ That is odd,” said Rose ; u those who are rich can 
nevertheless do great good to those who are not, and that 
is the greatest happiness ! ” 

“ One well-intentioned person can do but little good, 
even in giving away his all, and then he would be utterly 
powerless! ” 

u But if everybody did the same? ” 

“ Yes, everybody ! That is what is needed ; but it is 
impossible now to induce all rich people to make such a 
sacrifice. Even you, Rose, would not like to make it 
completely. You would like to use your income in re¬ 
lieving as much suffering as possible, that is, in raising a 
few families above want; but you would retain your cap¬ 
ital, and I, who preach to you — I hold to the wreck of 
my fortune to save what is called the honor of my son. 
That is, I must preserve enough for him to meet his 
father’s debts without himself falling into absolute desti¬ 
tution, which would involve lack of education, exces¬ 
sive labor, and probably death for a delicate boy, born of 
an indolent race, and heir to a feeble organization, which 
is in this respect far inferior to that of the peasant. Thus 
you see that, with all our good intentions, we who know 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


99 


not wliat remedy society can bring to this condition of 
things, we can do nothing, unless it be to prefer for our¬ 
selves mediocrity to riches, and work to idleness. This 
is one step toward virtue; but how small is our merit in 
it, and what inefficient help does it present for the abound- 
• ing misery which meets our eyes and saddens our hearts ! ” 

“‘But the remedy?” said Rose, quite stupefied. u Is 
there no remedy ? The king ought to find it in his head, 
since a king can do everything.” 

u A king can do nothing, or almost nothing,” replied 
Marcelle, smiling at Rose’s simplicity. “■The people 
must find it in their hearts.” 

“ All this seems to me like a dream,” said the good 
Rose. “ It is the first time that I have heard these things 
talked of. 1 think of them, indeed, sometimes all by my¬ 
self, but at home no one ever says that the world does not 
go on well. They say that one should take care of one’s 
self, because one’s own happiness is the only thing that 
nobody else will take care of, and that everybody is each 
one’s great enemy ; that is fearful, is it not? ” 

u And there is a strange contradiction in it. The world 
goes very ill, because it is filled only with creatures full of 
mutual fear and distrust.” 

“But what is your thought for escape? For one does 
not perceive the wrong without having the idea of some¬ 
thing better.” 

“This idea may be clear when all the world has con¬ 
ceived it with you, and assists you in producing it. But 
when there are only a few against all, and one is mocked 
at for thinking of it, and it is made a crime to speak of 
it, the sight is troubled and uncertain. This is the 
case, I do not say with the greatest spirits of our time — 
I know nothing of them, I am but an ignorant woman — 
but with the best meaning hearts, and that is our present 
position.” 

“ Yes, in these days of ours, as papa says,” said Rose, 
smiling. Then, with a sad expression, she added: “ What, 
then, can I do? What shall I do to be good, being 
rich?” 

“You will keep as a treasure in your heart, my dear 


IOO 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Rose, sympathy with suffering, that love of one’s neigh¬ 
bor which the Gospel teaches, and the ardent desire to 
sacrifice yourself for the good of others, in the day when 
this individual sacrifice may be useful to all.” 

“That day will come, then?” 

“Do not doubt it.” 

“You are sure of it?” 

“As of the justice and the goodness of God.” 

“ It is true, indeed, God cannot let evil last forever. 
It is all the same, my lady baroness ; you have dazzled 
my brain, and my head aches ; but still it seems to me 
that I understand now why you lost your fortuue so 
calmly, and there are moments in which I imagine that 
I could myself accept a mere competence with pleasure.” 

“And what if you must become poor — suffer, labor?” 

“ Saints ! if it were of no use it would be dreadful! ” 

“And if one began the while to see that it was of 
some use? If it were necessary to pass through a crisis 
of great agony, a sort of martyrdom, that humanity 
might be saved?” 

“Well, then,” said Rose, looking amazedly at Mar- 
celle, “one would endure it patiently.” 

“One would rush into it with enthusiasm!” cried 
Marcelle, with a look and tone which startled Rose, but 
electrified her with sympathy, though to her own extreme 
surprise. 

Edward began to slacken his sport, and the moon 
rose. Marcelle thought it time to put the child to bed, 
and Rose followed her in silence, still all confounded by 
the conversation they had held together. But falling 
back upon the realities of life as she drew near the farm, 
and heard from afar her mother’s resounding voice, she 
said to herself, looking at the young chatelaine walking 
before her: 

“Can she, too, be crazy?” 


t 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


IOl 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ROSE. 

ATOTWITHSTANDING this apprehension, Rose felt 
^ irresistibly drawn to Marcelle. She helped her to 
undress her child, surrounded her with a thousand 
charming attentions, and when about to leave her, took 
her hand to kiss. Marcelle, who already loved her as a 
child of sweet natural endowments, prevented her, by 
kissing both her cheeks. Encouraged and delighted, 
Rose lingered. 

“ I should like to ask you one thing,” said she at last. 
“ Has Grand-Louis really enough mind to comprehend 
you ? ” 

“ Certainly, Rose ! But what is that to you ? ” an¬ 
swered Marcelle, with a spice of mischief. 

“ Only it seemed very strange to me to-day to see that 
of us air, it was our miller who had most thoughts. And 
yet he has had no great instruction, poor Louis ! ” 

“But he has so much heart and sense!” said Mar¬ 
celle. 

“ Oh, indeed he has heart! I know him very well. 
I was brought up with him. His elder sister was my 
foster-mother, and my first years were passed at the mill 
of Angibault. Did not he tell you about it? ” 

“ He did not speak of you to me, but I thought I per¬ 
ceived that he was much devoted to you.” 

“He has always been very good to me,” said Rose, 
blushing. “His love of children is a proof of his ex¬ 
cellence. He was not more than seven or eight when I 
was at nurse with his sister, and my grandmother says 
that he tended me and amused me as if he had been old 
enough for my father. It seems, too, that I was so fond 


102 


THE MILLER OF ANG/BAULT. 


of him that I would not leave him ; and my mother, who 
did not dislike him then as she does now, brought him 
home with me for company, when I was weaned. He 
staid here two or three years, instead of the two or three 
months proposed at first. He was so active and service¬ 
able that he was very useful to us. His mother was then 
poorly off, and my grandmother, who is her friend, 
thought it a good plan to relieve her from one of her chil¬ 
dren. I remember well the time when Louis, my poor 
sister, and I were always running and playing together in 
the field, or the warren, or the barns. But when he was 
old enough to be of use to his mother in the mill, she 
sent for him. We were so sorry to part, and I fretted so 
without him, and his mother and sister (my foster- 
mother) were so fond of me, that they took me to 
Angibault every Saturday evening to stay till Monday 
morning. This lasted till I was old enough to be sent to 
boarding-school; and when I came out, of course a young 
man like the miller, and a girl who was considered a 
young lady, could no longer be playmates together. 
Still we often see each other, especially since my father 
employs him as his miller, notwithstanding the distance, 
and he comes here three or four times a week. And 
then I always take great pleasure in making a visit to 
Angibault, and his mother, whom I love dearly. Well, 
madam, can you conceive that for some time my mother 
has an idea that this is not well, and prevents my go¬ 
ing there? She has taken the greatest dislike to poor 
Louis, she does all she can to mortify him, and has for¬ 
bidden me to dance with him at the assemblies, on pre¬ 
tence that he is beneath me. But all of us young ladies 
in the country, we always dance with the peasants who 
invite us; and besides, it cannot be said that the Miller 
of Angibault is a peasant. He has about 20,000 francs, 
and has been better brought up than many others. To 
tell you the truth, my cousin Honore Bricolin does not 
write and spell as well as he, though much more money 
has been spent on his education, and I cannot see why 
they would have me so proud of my family/’ 

“ I cannot understand either,” said Marcelle, who saw 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


103 


that a little art was necessary with Mile. Rose, and that 
she would not confess herself with the ardent freedom of 
Grand-Louis. “Do you see nothing in the good miller’s 
manners that may have caused your mother’s dis¬ 
pleasure ? ” 

“Oh! nothing at all. He is a thousand times more 
polite and well-behaved than any of our country bour¬ 
geois, who almost all drink too much, and are sometimes 
very coarse. He never said a word in my ear that 
could make me cast down my eyes.” 

“ But might not your mother have taken up the sin¬ 
gular idea that he was, perhaps, in love with you?” 

Rose was confused, hesitated, and ended by avowing 
that her mother might easily have persuaded herself of 
that. 

“ And if your mother had guessed truly, would not 
she be right to put you on your guard against him?” 

“ Why, that is as it may be! If it were so, and if 
he spoke to me! But he never said a word to me be- 
youd friendship.” 

“ And if he were deeply enamoured of you without 
daring to tell you so ? ” 

“Then where would be the harm?” said Rose, coquet- 
tishly. 

“ You would be very wrong to keep his passion alive 
without wishing to encourage it seriously,” answered 
Marcelle, in quite a severe toue. “ It would be playing 
with a friend’s suffering; and it is not in your family, 
Rose, that a disappointment in love should be treated 
lightly! ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Rose with a roguish look, “ men do not 
go crazy for such things ! Still,” added she, artlessly, 
and hanging her head, “ I must own that poor Louis is 
sometimes very sad, and talks like a man in despair — 
and I am sure I cannot guess why ! It makes me very 
sorry.” 

“Not enough so, however, to make you condescend 
to understand him?” 

“ But if he did love me, what could I do to comfort 
him?” 




THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


104 

“ To be sure ! you must love him, or avoid him.” 

“I can do neither. It is as good as impossible to love 
him, and as to avoiding him, I feel too much friendship 
for him to resolve on giving him such pain. If you 
knew how he looks when I pretend not to notice him! 
He turns quite white, and that hurts me.” 

“ Then why do you say that it would be impossible 
for you to love him?” 

“ Saints ! can one love one whom they cannot marry?” 

“But one can always marry the one whom they 
love.” 

“Oh, not always! Look at my poor sister. Her 
example is too fearful for me to take the risk of follow¬ 
ing it.” 

“You risk nothing, my dear Hose,” said Marcelle, 
with some bitterness; “ when it is so easy to dispose of 
one’s love and one’s will, there is no love, and no danger.” 

“ Do not say so,” returned Rose with vivacity. “ I 
am as capable as another of loving, and risking misfor¬ 
tune. But would you advise me to be so courageous? ” 

“ God forbid ! I would only help you to determine the 
state of your heart, that you may not, by your impru¬ 
dence, cause unhappiness to Louis.” 

“Poor Grand-Louis ! — But see, madam, what can I 
do? Suppose that my father, after trying auger and 
threats, consented to give me to him; that my mother, 
terrified by my sister’s fate, should prefer to sacrifice her 
repugnance rather than see me fall sick, all of which 
is by no means likely ; — but to reach this point, what 
quarrels, and scenes,/md" vexation would there not be? ” 

“You are afraid — you do not love, I tell you ; you may 
be right, and for this reason it is necessary that Grand- 
Louis should go.” 

This advice, to which Marcelle always returned, 
seemed not at all to Rose’s taste. Her vanity was ex¬ 
tremely flattered by the miller’s love, especially since 
Mine, de Blanchemont had so raised him in her estima¬ 
tion, and somewhat, perhaps, from the rarity of the case. 
The peasants have little susceptibility to passion, and in 
the bourgeois society in which Rose lived, strong feeling 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT . 


is more and more uncommon and unknown, among the 
crowding cares of worldly interest. Rose had read ro¬ 
mances ; she was proud of inspiring an extravagant and 
hopeless attachment, of which, perhaps, the whole coun¬ 
try side would one day talk with amazement. Finally, 
Grand-Louis was the favorite of all the peasant girls, 
and there was not sufficient distinction between their 
class, and the parvenu bourgeoisie of the Bricolins, to 
make this an unimportant conquest over the prettiest 
girls of the place. 

“Do not think me cowardly,” said Rose, after an in¬ 
stant’s reflection. “ I am quite able to reply to mamma 
when she accuses the poor fellow unjustly, and if I 
should take a fancy into my head — with help of you 
who are so wise, and whom my father is so anxious, just 
now, to please—I might triumph over everything. But 
in the first place, I assure you that I should not lose my 
senses, like my poor sister. I am obstinate, and have 
been so much spoiled that they are a little afraid of me. 
But I will tell you what I should find hardest.” 

“ Go on, Rose, I am listening.” 

“What will people think of me, if I make this tur¬ 
moil at home! All my young friends will cast scoiu 
upon me, partly through jealousy of the love I inspire, 
such as they will never find in their moneyed marriages! 
I shall be pursued with blame and mockery by all my 
cousins and suitors, who think themselves so grand, and 
will be furious at my preferring a peasant to them; by 
all the mothers, frightened at my example for their 
daughters ; and by even the peasants, envious of one of 
themselves for making what they call a great marriage. 
k There’s a crazy girl,’ one will say ; 4 it is in the blood, 
and she will soon eat raw meat like her sister.’ 4 What 
a fool,’ another will say, 4 when she might marry a man of 
her own class ! * 4 She is a wicked girl,’ everybody will 

cry, ‘to grieve the parents who never refused her any¬ 
thing. Oh ! the shameless, abandoned thing, to make all 
this scandal about a laborer because he is five feet eight! 
Why not for her ploughboy? Why not for Uncle 
Cadoche, who begs from door to door ? ’ There will 


io 6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 

never be an end of all this, and I think it is not well for 
a young girl to expose herself to such things for love of 
a man.” 

u My dear Rose,” said Marcelle, “ your last objections 
do not appear to me so serious as your first, and yet I see 
that you shrink more from braving public opinion than 
the resistance of your parents. We must carefully ex¬ 
amine the pros and cons together, and as you have re¬ 
lated your history to me, I owe you mine. I will tell it 
to you, though it is a secret — my life secret! The time 
will come when it will be none, and meanwhile I am 
sure you will keep it faithfully.” 

u Oh, madam ! ” cried Rose, throwing herself on Mar- 
celle’s neck, “ how good you are ! I have never known 
any secrets, and I have always longed to have one to keep. 
Judge whether yours will be sacred to me ! It will ex¬ 
plain many things to me, for it seems to me that there 
must be a principle in love as in all things, and no one 
would ever speak to me of it, under pretence that there 
was not, or ought not to be, any such thing as love. Still 
it seems to me — but speak, speak, dear Mine. Marcelle! 
I imagine that possessing your confidence, I shall have 
your friendship.” 

u Why not, if I may hope to have yours in answer?” 
said Marcelle, returning her caresses. 

“Oh, heavens!” said Rose, her eyes full of tears; 
“do you not see that I love you? that from the first 
glance my heart leaned toward you, and is all yours, 
though it is but a day that I know you? How can it be? 
I know nothing of it. But I never saw any one who 
pleased me as much as you. I have seen such women 
only in books, and I feel towards you as if you alone 
were all the beautiful novel heroines of whom I have 
read.” 

“ Then too, dear child, your noble heart needs to love ! 
I will try not to be unworthy of the occasion which 
favors me.” 

The small Fanchon was already installed in the neigh¬ 
boring closet, and already breathed loud enough to cover 
the voices of the owls, and the wailing of the wind around 


7 HE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL T. 


io 7 

the old turrets. Marcelle seated herself at the open win 
dow, and while the quiet stars shone down from a sky of 
glorious purity, she took Rose’s hand in hers, and spoke 
as follows: — 


THE MIL LEE OF ANGIBAULT. 


ioS 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MARCELLE. 

A/TY story, dear Rose, is indeed like a romance; but it 
is so simple, and has so little novelty, that it is like 
all other romances. You shall have it in as few words 
as possible. 

u When my boy was two years old, his health was so 
poor that I despaired of his life. My anxiety, my de¬ 
gression, and the constant care which I would intrust to 
no one beside, were natural reasons for my retirement 
from society, of which I had seen but little, and that little 
without pleasure. The physicians advised me to take 
my child to the country. My husband had a fine estate 
twenty leagues from here, as you know ; but the noisy 
and profligate life he led there Avith his friends, his horses, 
his dogs, and his mistresses, deterred me from trying the 
place, even at the times when he was in Paris. My old 
Lapierre, who had passed some time there, gave me such 
a picture of the disorder of the house, the insolence of 
the servants, whose unpaid wages gave them the privilege 
of unrebuked pillage, and the disagreeable neighborhood, 
that I gave up the thought of living there. M. de 
Blanchemont, who did not care to have me come here, 
lest I should become acquainted with his irregularities, 
assured me that this was a horrible place, and that the 
old chateau was uninhabitable ; and on this last point you 
will allow that little exaggeration was necessary. He 
talked of buying me a country house near Paris ; but 
where could he have fouud money for the purchase, when 
at that very time, without my knowiDg it, he was nearly 
ruined? 

u Seeing that his promises came to nothing, and that 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


109 

my boy was failing, I hastily hired half a house, the first 
and the only one I could find at the moment, at Mont¬ 
morency, a village admirably situated near Paris, with a 
very healthy neighborhood of woods and hills. Houses 
there are in much request by Parisians, and even rich 
people go and live there in the simplest manner, for part 
of the summer. 

u My relations and friends came to see me often at 
first, then less and less, as always happens when the per¬ 
son visited really loves her retreat, and attracts others to 
it neither by luxury nor coquetry. Towards the close of 
the first season, a fortnight often passed without my see¬ 
ing any one from Paris. I had no acquaintance with the 
notabilities of the place. Edward was better ; I was calm 
and satisfied: I read much, I walked in the woods alone 
with him, a woman to lead his ass, a book, and a great 
dog, the jealous guardian of our persons. This life 
pleased me exceedingly, and M. de Blanchemont was de¬ 
lighted to be free from the care of me. He never came 
to see me. Now and then he sent a servant to inquire 
after his son’s health, and my pecuniary wants, which, 
happily for me, were very modest; he could not other¬ 
wise have satisfied them.” 

u See now ! ” cried Rose ; u he told us here that it Avas 
for you he exceeded his income and yours — that you 
must have horses and carriages, while you perhaps were 
on foot in the woods, to save hiring an ass! ” 

“ You have guessed right, dear Rose. When I asked 
my husband for money, he told me such long, strange 
stories about the poverty of his tenants, and how they 
were ruined by the winter’s frost, and the summer’s hail, 
that, weary of all these details, and frequently duped by 
his generous commiseration for you, I approved it, and 
waived my claim to the enjoyment of my income. 

“ The old house in which I lived was neat, but very 
humble, and I attracted no attention there. I occupied 
the upper of its two stories. Two young men, of whom 
one was sick, lived in the lower. A little shady garden, 
surrounded by a high wall, where Edward used to play 


I IO 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT . 


with his nurse, while I sat at the window, was common 
to both the lodgers, M. Henri Lemor and me. 

“ Henri was 22. His brother was not more than 15. 
The poor boy was consumptive, and his brother nursed 
him with the tenderest care. They were orphans. Henri 
was a real mother to the poor sufferer. He did not leave 
him for an hour; he read to him, carried him in his arms 
to take the air, dressed and undressed him like a child, 
and, as the unfortunate Ernest scarcely slept, Henri, pale, 
exhausted, and haggard with watching, looked almost as 
ill as he. 

“ An excellent old woman who owned our house, and 
lived in part of the basement, showed great kinduess and 
devotion to these unhappy young people ; but she could 
not do everything, and I was eager to second her. I did 
so, zealously and without sparing myself, as you would 
have done in my place, Rose ; and even in the last days 
of Ernest’s life, I scarcely quitted his bedside. He testi¬ 
fied boundless affection and gratitude to me. Not know¬ 
ing and no longer feeling the serious nature of his disease, 
he died without knowing it, and almost while speaking. 
He had just said to me that I had cured him, when his 
breathing ceased, and his hand stiffened and grew cold in 
mine. 

“ Henri’s grief was so deep as to make him sick, and 
it became his turn to be nursed and watched. The 
strength of the old landlady, Mme. Joly, failed; Edward 
was fortunately very well, and I could divide my care be¬ 
tween him and Henri. The duty of assisting and com¬ 
forting the latter fell to me alone, and, by the end of the 
autumn, I had the joy of seeing him restored to life. 

“ You can easily imagine, Rose, the deep, unalterable 
friendship that was cemented between us two, amid so 
much grief and danger. When winter and the urgency 
of my relations forced me to return to Paris, we had 
formed such delightful habits of reading, talking, aud 
walking together in the little garden, that our separation 
was truly heart-rending. But we ventured to promise to 
meet at Montmorency the following year. We were still 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


111 


timid with one another, and would have trembled at giv¬ 
ing the name of love to our mutual affection. 

u Henri had never thought of inquiring into my posi¬ 
tion, nor I into his. Our expenses were about the same. 
He asked permission to come and see me in Paris ; but 
when I gave him my address at my mother-in-law’s, at 
the Hotel de Blanchemout, he appeared surprised and 
alarmed. When I left Montmorency in the carriage with 
armorial beariugs which my relations sent for me, he 
seemed dismayed, and when he learned that I was rich 
(I thought I was, and passed for such) he looked upon 
himself as forever separated from me. The winter 
passed without my seeing him, or hearing his name. 

u Yet at this time Lemor was really richer than I. 
H is father, who had died the year previous, was a mail 
of the people, — a workman brought into easy circumstan¬ 
ces by a small trade and much ability. His children had 
received a very good education, and Ernest’s death left 
Ilenri with an income of eight or ten thousand francs. 
But the coarse and money-making character of the trades¬ 
man father, his shocking hardness and deep-seated selfish¬ 
ness, had early revolted Henri’s enthusiastic and generous 
spirit. The winter after Ernest’s death, he eagerly ceded 
liis stock-in-trade, for a nominal price, to a man whom 
the elder Lemor had ruined by taking advantage of cir¬ 
cumstances in the most rapacious and ungenerous man¬ 
ner. Henri distributed the proceeds of this sale among 
the workmen whom his father had long oppressed, and 
withdrawing from their gratitude with a sort of aversion 
(for he has often told me that these unfortunate men had 
been themselves corrupted and degraded by their master’s 
example), he changed his abode, and chose an appren¬ 
ticeship to become himself an artisan. The preceding 
year, and before his brother’s illness drove him to the 
country, he had commenced the study of mechanics. 

“ I learned all these details through the old woman at 
Montmorency, whom I visited two or three times towards 
the end of the winter, as much, I confess, to hear some¬ 
thing of Henri, as on account of the friendship of which 
she was iu every way worthy. This woman venerated 


1 12 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Lemor. She had nursed poor Ernest as if he had been 
her own son, and she never spoke of Henri but with 
clasped hands and tearful eyes. When I asked her why 
he did not come to see me, she answered that my wealth 
and position in society could not permit uatural inter¬ 
course between a person like me and one who had volun¬ 
tarily cast himself into poverty. It was on this occasion 
that she told me all that she knew of him, and which 1 
have just related to you. 

“ You can understand, dear Rose, how I was struck 
by the conduct of this young man, who in our intercourse 
had shown himself so simple, modest, and entirely igno¬ 
rant of his moral greatness. I could think of nothing 
else. In company, or in my solitary chamber, at the 
theatre or at church, his remembrance and his image 
were always in my heart and my thoughts. I compared 
him with all the men whom I knew, and how noble he 
appeared to me! 

“ By the end of March I returned to Montmorency, 
not hoping to find my interesting neighbor there. Yet 
when I entered the garden with one of my aunts, who 
had insisted on seeing me reestablished in the country, I 
had one moment of real grief, on hearing that the lower 
story was let to an old lady. But when my companion 
was at a little distance, good Mme. Joly whispered me 
that she had told this little lie because my aunt seemed 
inquisitive and gossiping, but that Lemor was there, and 
now concealed, not to see me till I was alone. 

“ I thought I should faint with joy, and was ready to 
die with my patient endurance of the civilities and atten¬ 
tions of my poor aunt. At last she went, and I agaiu 
saw Lemor; and not that day alone, but every day, and 
almost every hour of the day, from the end of winter 
till the last of autumn. The few and short visits that 
were paid me, and my necessary journeys to Paris, stole 
from us at most, putting all the hours together, two weeks 
of our delightful intimacy. 

“ I leave you to judge whether this life was happy, 
and whether love became absolute master of our friend¬ 
ship. Bui our feeling was as pure in the sight of God 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


ir 3 

and of my son, as had been the friendship formed at the 
death-bed of Henri’s brother. There was, perhaps, a 
little gossip about it among the natives of Montmorency, 
but the good reputation of our hostess, her discretion with 
regard to the feeling she could not but guess, her warmth 
iu defending our conduct, the quiet, retired life which we 
led, and our care never to appear together out of the 
house,— in short, the absence of any ground for scandal 
silenced calumny, and no word ever reached the ears of 
my husband or any of my relatives. 

“ Never was love more religiously felt — never did it 
fill two souls with a more healthful influence. My mind 
was transported into a new sphere. Henri’s opinions 
may seem very singular to the world, but to me none be¬ 
side can be so true, or so Christian. The enthusiasm of 
faith and virtue became known to me at the same time 
with that of feeling. These two emotions are henceforth 
inseparably bound together in my heart. Henri adored 
my boy? my boy whom his father forgot, deserted, and 
scarcely knew! And Edward felt the tenderness and 
respect for Lemor that his father should have inspired. 

“ Once more the winter tore us from our terrestrial 
paradise, but this time it did not separate us. Lemor 
came secretly to see me from time to time, and we ex¬ 
changed letters almost every day. He had a key to the 
garden ; and, when we were prevented from meeting there 
by night, a cleft in the pedestal of an old statue received 
our correspondence. 

“ You know that M. de Blanchemont lost his life very 
recently in a tragic and unexpected manner, killed by one 
of his friends iu a mortal duel about a silly mistress who 
had betrayed him. I saw Henri a month afterwards, 
and my sorrows date from that moment. I thought it 
so natural to engage myself to him for life ! I wished to 
see him for one moment, and fix with him the time when 
the duties of my position would permit me to give him 
my hand and myself, as he possessed my heart and soul. 
Bul would you believe it, Rose? His first impulse was 
a terrified and despairing refusal! The fear of hewg 
g . I yin gni 



THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


JI 4 

rich, yes, the dread of wealth, was more powerful than 
love, and he fled from me with horror. 

“ I was offended, dismayed. I knew not how to con¬ 
vince him, and I would not stay him. And then, on re¬ 
flection, I found that he was right; that he was consistent 
with himself, and faithful to his principles. I esteemed 
him for it, I loved him the more, and I resolved so to 
order my life as no longer to wound him; to quit the 
world altogether, and bury myself in the country, far from 
Paris, so as to break off all connection with the rich and 
powerful, whom Lemor looks upon as alike enemies of 
humanity, whether their action be wilfully injurious or 
merely blind and involuntary. 

“ But with this project, which was only secondary in 
my mind, I associated another, which should go to the 
root of the evil, and forever destroy all the scruples of my 
lover, my future husband. I desired to imitate his ex¬ 
ample, and consume my fortune in what we called at the 
convent good works — in what Lemor calls the work of 
remuneration—in what is just toward men and pleasing 
to God in all religious creeds, and in all ages. I was free 
to make this sacrifice without injury to what the rich 
would call the future prosperity of my son, since I still 
believed him heir to a considerable fortune ; and besides, 
in my secret thought, by abstaining from the use of his 
revenue during the long years of his minority, by accumu¬ 
lating and investing his rents, I should labor for his hap¬ 
piness also. That is to say, that by bringing him up in 
habits of sobriety and simplicity, and communicating to 
him the fervor of my charity, I should enable him, in 
time, to consecrate to the same holy use a considerable 
fortune, augmented by my economy and by my self-im¬ 
posed determination not to use it in any way for my own 
benefit, notwithstanding my legal rights in that respect. 
It seemed to me that the artless and tender soul of my 
child would respond to my enthusiasm, and that I should 
heap up these terrestrial riches for his future salvation. 
Smile if you will, dear Pose, but it still seems to me that 
I shall succeed, under more restricted conditions, in mak¬ 
ing my Edward regard things in this way. He has no 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Il 5 

longer an inheritance from his father, and what is left to 
me will be henceforth devoted to him for the same end. 
I think I have no right to despoil myself of the compe¬ 
tence that remains to us both, for I conceive that nothing 
now belongs solely to myself, since he has no certain ex¬ 
pectations but from me. The vow of poverty which I 
would have taken is a new baptism, which, perhaps, God 
does not permit me to impose upon my child till he 
is old enough freely to accept or reject it. Ought I, 
having given birth to a creature destined to enjoyment 
and power in society, to deprive him forcibly and uncon¬ 
sulted of what society calls a great advantage and a sa¬ 
cred right? In the general greed and selfishness which 
the corrupting influences of wealth have induced in man¬ 
kind, if I should die, and leave my son to penury, before 
I had had time to teach him the love of labor, to what 
vices and degradation should I not expose his good but 
feeble instincts ? Some men talk of a religion of brother¬ 
hood and community, where all men shall be happy 
through loving, and become rich through stripping them¬ 
selves of their possessions. It is said that the greatest 
saints of Christianity, and the greatest sages of antiquity, 
have been upon the point of solving this problem. It is 
yet farther said that this religion is ready to sink into the 
hearts of men, though all seems, in the actual world, to 
conspire against it, because the immense and terrific strife 
of selfish interest must give rise to the necessity for a 
change, through very weariness of wrong, need of truth, 
and love of good. I believe all this firmly, Rose. But, 
as I said to you just now, I know not what day God has 
fixed for the fulfilment of His designs. I understand 
nothing of politics ; I do not see in them sufficiently vivid 
gleams of my ideal; and, sheltered in the ark like the bird 
during the deluge, I wait, pray, suffer, and hope, unheed¬ 
ing the scorn which the world lavishes on those who do 
not approve its injustice, and rejoice in the calamities of 
their times. 

“ But in this ignorance of the morrow, in this unchained 
tempest of opposing human forces, I must strain my boy 
to my bosom, and aid him to surmount the wave which 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


116 

perhaps is bearing us to the shore of a better world than 
this. Alas, dear Rose ! in an age when money is every¬ 
thing, everything is bought and sold. Art, science, all 
instruction — and consequently all the virtues — and re¬ 
ligion itself, is forbidden to those who cannot pay for the 
advantage of drinking from these divine sources. Just 
as one pays for the sacraments of the church, must one 
buy with money the right to be a man, to learn to read 
and to think, to know good and evil. The poor are con¬ 
demned, save those of remarkable genius, to vegetate, 
deprived of wisdom and instruction ; and the beggar, the 
poor child, whose only trade is to stretch out the hand and 
utter plaintive sounds, amid what false and obscure notions 
is his weak and untrained intelligence obliged to struggle ! 
There is something terrible in the thought that superstition 
is the only religion accessible to the peasant; that his whole 
worship is reduced to forms, of which he knows neither the 
meaning nor the origin, and that God is to him only an 
idol favorable to the harvests and flocks of those who vow 
to him an image or a candle. While coming here this 
morning, I met a procession stopping around a fountain, 
to conjure the drought. I asked why they prayed here 
rather than elsewhere. A woman replied to me, show¬ 
ing a little plaster statue set in a niche, and decked with 
garlands like a pagan deity,* 4 Because this good lady is 
the best of all for rain/ 

44 If my son is poor, he must thus be idolatrous, un¬ 
like the early Christians, who embraced the true re¬ 
ligion with holy poverty. I well know that the poor man 
may rightfully demand of me, 4 Why should thy son 
know God and truth rather than mine ? ’ Alas ! I have 
no reply, but that I can save his son only by the sacrifice 
of mine. Aud what a cruel answer ! Oh ! the hour of 
shipwreck is fearful. Each one flies to save what is dear- 

* The Fathers of the primitive Church bitterly condemned 
this pagan custom of ornamenting the statues of the gods. 
Minutius Felix speaks admirably and clearly on this point. The 
Church of the Middle Ages reestablished the practices of idol¬ 
atry, and the modern Church continues this lucrative specula¬ 
tion. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


ll 7 

cst to him, and abandons the rest. But yet again, Rose, 
what can we poor women do, who know enough only to 
weep over all this? 

u Thus the duties imposed ou us by family ties and by 
humanity are contradictory ; but something we can do 
for the family, while for humanity, unless we are very 
rich, we can do nothing. For in these times, when small 
fortunes are so rapidly swallowed up by those greater, 
mediocrity is constraint and feebleness. 

“ This is why,” continued Marcelle, wiping away a 
tear, u I am forced to modify the fair visions I had on 
quitting Paris two days ago. But I still mean to do my 
best, Rose, not to surround myself with little useless pleas¬ 
ures at others’ expense. I wish to bring myself to what 
is merely necessary, buy a peasant house, live as cheaply 
as is possible without injuring my health (since I owe my 
life to Edward), arrange my small capital so as one day 
to give it to him, after having indicated to him whatever 
pious and useful employment of it God may have revealed 
to us in that time ; and meanwhile, devote the least pos¬ 
sible portion of my humble revenue to our needs and the 
good education of my son, that I may always have where¬ 
with to assist the poor who may knock at my door. This, 
I believe, is all I can do, unless there should soon be 
formed a truly holy association, a sort of new church, 
where some inspired believers should summon their breth¬ 
ren to live in common under the laws of a religion and a 
morality answering to the noble claims of the soul, and to 
the laws of true equality. Do not ask me what these 
laws would precisely be. I have no mission to state 
them, since God has not given me the genius to discover 
them. My intelligence is limited to the power of under¬ 
standing them when revealed, and my good instincts com¬ 
pel me to reject the systems now offered somewhat too 
> arrogantly under various names. I see none of them in 
which moral liberty is respected, or where atheism or 
ambition do not appear more or less. You have perhaps 
heard of the St. Simonians and the Fourierites. Even 
these systems are without religion and without love, abor¬ 
tive philosophies, rough sketches, where the spirit of e\ il 


f 18 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


seems to hide under the guise of philanthropy. 1 do not 
absolutely condemn them, but they repel me with the pre¬ 
sentiment of a new snare laid for the simplicity of man¬ 
kind. 

“ But it is late, my good Rose, and your beautiful 
bright eyes are nevertheless striving against the fatigue 
of listening to me. I have no inference to draw for you 
from all this, save that we are both loved by poor men, 
and that one of us aspires to free herself from the alliance 
of the rich, while the other hesitates and dreads their 
opinion.” 

u Ah, madam! ” said Rose, who had heard Marcelle 
with religious attention, “how great and good you are ! 
how well you know how to love, and how plainly I now 
understand why I love you ! It seems to me that your 
story, and the explanation of your conduct, have made 
my brain as large again. What a poor, sad, mean life 
do we lead compared with that of which you dream ! 
My God ! my God ! I think I shall die the day that you 
go from here ! ” 

“I confess, dear Rose, that but for you I should be im¬ 
patient to go and build my cabin among those of the poor¬ 
est people ; but you w T ill make me love your farm, and even 
this old chateau — Ah ! I hear your mother calling you. 
Kiss me again, and forgive me for having spoken some 
harsh words to you. I reproach myself, now that I see 
how sensitive and affectionate you are.” 

Rose embraced the young baroness with eager warmth, 
and left her. Like a spoiled child as she was, she gave 
herself the small pleasure of letting her mother call while 
she went slowly towards her. Then she reproached her¬ 
self, and began to run ; but she could not bring herself to 
answer till she was quite there ; that shrill voice sounded 
in her ear like a false note in music, after the sweet har¬ 
mony of Marcelle’s words. 

Still weary from her journey, Mme. de Blanchemont 
slipped into the bed where her child was sleeping, and 
drawing the orange-colored curtains of flowered linen, she 
was falling asleep without thinking of the indispensable 
ghosts of the old chateau, when an incomprehensible noise 
compelled her to listen, and startled her into half rising. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


u 9 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE RENCONTRE. 

' I TIE doise which broke our heroine’s repose was that 
A of something moving to and fro over the outside of 
her chamber door, with singular persistence and awk¬ 
wardness. The touch was too clumsy and unintelligent 
to be that of a human hand feeling for the lock in the 
dark, and yet, as the sound was not like that made by a 
rat, Marcelle could form no other supposition. She 
thought that some one belonging to the farm might sleep 
in the old chateau, perhaps some druuken servant, who, 
groping for his lodging, had mistaken the story. Then, 
remembering that she had not taken in the key, she rose 
to repair her forgetfulness as soon as the person should 
go. But the noise continued, and Marcelle dared not 
open the door to effect her design, for fear of encounter¬ 
ing some clownish insult. This little anxiety was begin¬ 
ning to be very disagreeable, when the doubtful hand 
grew impatient, and scratched the door in such a way 
that Marcelle was sure it was a cat; and, smiling at her 
alarm, put her hand on the latch, to receive or drive 
away this visitor to her chamber. But scarcely had she 
opened a crack, with some remaining caution, when the 
door was flung back upon her with violence, and the 
madwoman stood upon the threshold before her eyes. 

This visit appeared to Marcelle more unpleasant than 
any she could have supposed, and she doubted whether 
she should not repulse the disturber by force, notwith¬ 
standing what she had been told of the habitually quiet 
nature of her insanity. But the disgust which she felt 


120 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


at the shocking imcleanliness of the unfortunate creature, 
and yet more a feeling of compassion, prevented her 
from carrying this idea into execution. The maniac did 
not seem conscious of her presence, and it was probable 
that, with her taste for solitude, she would retreat as soon 
as Marcelle should attract her attention. Mme. de 
Blanchemont thought it best to wait and observe the 
caprice of her vexatious guest; and drawing back, she 
seated herself on the edge of her bed, closing the cur¬ 
tains behind her, so that if Edward should wake, he might 
not see the ugly woman who had frightened him in the 
warren. 

Bricoline (we have already mentioned that in all fam¬ 
ilies of the peasantry and country bourgeois, the eldest 
daughter is called by the hereditary name with a femi¬ 
nine termination) hastily crossed the chamber, and went 
to the window, which she opened after many futile at¬ 
tempts, for the weakness of her emaciated hands, and 
the length of her nails — which she would never permit 
to be cut — made her very awkward. When she had 
succeeded she leaned out, and with a designedly subdued 
voice, called Paul. This was doubtless the name of 
her lover, whom she always expected, and in whose 
death she could not be persuaded to believe. 

As this melancholy summons awakened no echo in the 
silence of the night, she sat down on the stone bench, 
which, in all antique structures of this kind occupies the 
deep embrasure of the window, and remained mute, con¬ 
stantly twisting her bloody handkerchief, and apparently 
resigned to wait. In about ten minutes she rose and 
called again, still in a low voice, as if she thought her 
lover concealed in the bushes about the moat, and feared 
to awaken the attention of some of the people at the 
farm. 

For more than an hour the unhappy girl continued 
this course, first calling Paul, and then awaiting him 
with extraordinary patience and resignation. Her ghastly 
face and deformed figure were fully displayed by the 
moon. Perhaps she found a sort of happiness in this 
vain hope. Perhaps the illusion was so strong that she 


TIIE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


I 2 l 


dreamed, while awake, that lie was there, and that she 
heard and answered him. And then, when the dream 
faded, she recovered it by calling anew upon her dead 
lover. 

Marcelle’s heart was wrung as she observed her. She 
would fain have surprised all the secrets of her madness, 
in the hope of finding some means to mitigate her suf¬ 
fering ; but such insane persons never explain themselves, 
and it is impossible to divine whether they are absorbed 
by the ceaseless gnawing of one thought, or whether 
the action of their minds is occasionally suspended. 

When the wretched girl at last left the window, she 
began to pace the room with the same slow step and 
gravity of demeanor which had struck Marcelle in the 
alley of the warren. She appeared no longer to think 
of her lover, and her strongly contracted countenance 
resembled that of an old alchemist lost in the pursuit of 
the grand arcanum. This regular march lasted long 
enough to be extremely fatiguing to Mme. de Blanche- 
mont, who dared neither go to bed, nor leave her child 
long enough to call the small Fanchon. At last the 
lunatic changed her mood, and going up to the next story, 
went to another window to call Paul and await his com¬ 
ing. 

Marcelle then thought she ought to go and tell the 
Bricolins. Doubtless they were unaware that their 
daughter had escaped from the house, and perhaps ran 
the risk of suicide, or of an involuntary fall from a 
window. But Fanchon, whom she roused with some 
difficulty to take her place at Edward’s bedside while she 
went herself to the new chateau, dissuaded her from her 
intention. 

“Eh ! no, madam ! ” said she, “ the Bricolins will not 
stir themselves for that. They are used to seeing this 
poor young lady run around both night and day. She 
does no harm, and it is long since she has forgotten to 
make way with herself. They say she never sleeps. 
It is no wonder that she is wider awake in the moon¬ 
light. Shut your door tight, so that she shall not trouble 
you again. You did well not to speak to her; it vexes 


122 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


her, and makes her cross. She will go on as usual up 
there till day, like the owls ; but now that you know 
what it is, it will not keep you from sleeping.” 

Little Fanchon spoke quite at her ease, and, thanks to 
her fifteen years and quiet temperament, would have 
slept close to the roar of cannon, if she but knew what 
it was. Marcelle found some difficulty in following 
her example ; but finally, overpowered by fatigue, she 
slept, notwithstanding the continual and regular steps 
of the maniac, which she heard above her room, shak¬ 
ing the trembling beams of the old chateau. 

The next day Rose was sorry, but not surprised, 
to learn the incident of the night. 

u Ah, heavens ! ” said she, “ and yet we shut her up 
closely, knowing that she is used to wander all around, 
and prefers the old chateau during the moonlight nights. 
(That is the reason my mother did not want to lodge 
you here.) But she must have found some means to open 
her window, and so get out. She is neither strong nor 
skilful with her hands, but she has such patience! She 
has but one idea, and never rests. My lord baron, 
whose heart was not tender like yours, and who made 
fun of things that are least to be laughed at, pretended 
that she sought — now see if I can remember his word 
— the quadrature,— yes, that is it, the quadrature of 
the circle; and when he saw her pass, he would say to 
us, 1 Well, has not your philosopher yet solved the 
problem ? * ” 

“ I feel no inclination to jest upon a subject so heart¬ 
rending,” replied Marcelle ; u and I had dismal dreams 
last night. See, Rose, we are good friends, and I hope 
we shall be so more and more ; and since you offered 
me your chamber, I accept it on condition that you do 
not leave it, but that we share it. A sofa for Edward, 
and a cot for me, will be quite enough.” 

“ Oh! you make me perfectly happy,” cried Rose, 
throwing her arms round her neck. u It will not give 
me the least trouble. There are two beds in all our 
chambers; it is the country custom, so as to be always 
ready to receive a friend or relation, and I shall be so 
happy to talk with you every evening! ” 


riiE MILLER OR ANG1BAULT. 


123 

This day, in fact, greatly increased the friendship of 
the two young women. Marcelle yielded herself to it 
with the more freedom, that it was the only agreeable 
thing she could expect while with the Bricolins. The 
farmer showed her over a part of the estate, talking 
incessantly of money and arrangements. He tried in 
vain to disguise his desire to purchase, and Marcelle, 
who, to bring this tiresome and unpleasant business to 
an end, was ready to make some of the required sacri¬ 
fices as soon as she should be assured of the exactitude 
of his statements, had tact enough, meanwhile, to keep 
him uneasy. She understood from Rose that she might, 
just now, have great influence over her destiny; and 
besides, Grand-Louis had made her promise to decide 
nothing without consulting him. Mme. de Blanchemont 
felt entire confidence in this unexpected friend, and 
determined to await his return to choose a competent 
adviser. He knew everybody, and had too much judg¬ 
ment not to place her in good hands. 

We left the excellent miller starting for the town of 
* * *, with Lapierre, Suzette, and the patachon. They 
arrived there by ten o’clock, and the next morning, at 
dawn, Grand-Louis saw the two servants in the Paris 
diligence, and took his way to the house of the bourgeois 
whom he had pitched upon as the purchaser of the car¬ 
riage. But in passing the post-office, he went in to give 
to the postmaster himself the letter with which Marcelle 
had charged him. The first face which met his eyes 
was that of the young unknown, who, a fortnight before, 
had been straying through the Black Valley, visiting 
Blanchemont, and had been led by chance to the mill of 
Angibault. This young man did not observe him; he 
was standing near the office door, and reading eagerly, 
and with emotion, a newly-received letter. Grand-Louis 
having Mme. de Blanchemont’s in his hand, and remem¬ 
bering the interest excited in the young lady by the 
name of Henri cut upon a tree on the bank of the 
Vauvre, cast a side glance upon the address of the 
young man’s letter, which it was easy for him to do, as 
the uukuown held it in such a way m to conceal the 


124 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


contents, but completely expose the outside. With a 
rapid look of friendly curiosity, the miller saw the name 
of M. Henri Lemor, in the same hand as the address of 
the letter which he was carrying. Doubtless these two 
letters were both from Marcelle, and the unknown was 
— the miller used no ceremony in his supposition — the 
lover of the beautiful widow. 

Grand-Louis was not mistaken ; Lemor had that in¬ 
stant received the first note that Marcelle had written 
from Paris, which the friend who took charge of his 
letters had sent to the poste restante at * * *, and he 
was far from expecting the happiness of immediately 
receiving another, when Grand-Louis sportively slipped 
the treasure between his eyes and that which he was 
about reading for the third time. 

Henri started, and would have snatched the letter; but 
the miller withdrew it, saying, u No, no, not so fast, my 
boy! The clerk there may spy us, and I have no fancy 
for paying the fine, which is not small. We will talk a 
little farther off, for I have no idea that you will have 
patience to wait till this pretty letter return from Paris, 
where it would certainly be sent, spite of your claim 
and your passport, since it is not addressed to the poste 
restante here. Follow me a little way.” 

Lemor followed him, but the miller was already dis¬ 
turbed by a new scruple. “ Stay,” said he, when thev 
had reached a suitably lonely place, “ are you really the 
person whose name is upon this letter ? ” 

“ Certainly you have no doubt of it; and you appar¬ 
ently know me, since you presented it to me ? ” 

“Never mind, you have a passport?” 

“Surely, for I have just shown it at the office to pro¬ 
cure my letters.” 

“ Never mind again, though you take me for a gendarme 
in disguise, let us see it,” said the miller, giving him the 
letter. “ Hand over, hand over.” 

“ You are very suspicious,” said Lemor, hastily 
giving him his papers. 

“Yet a little moment,” pursued the prudent miller; 
“ I want to be able to swear, if the post-office people did 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


25 


see me give you the letter, that it was unsealed.” And 
he quickly broke the seal, but without permitting himself 
to open the letter, and returned it to Henri as he took 
his passport. 

While the young man was eagerly reading, the miller, 
not sorry to have an opportunity of satisfying his curi¬ 
osity, made acquaintance with the titles and qualities of 
the unknown. Henri Lemor, aged 24, native of Paris, 
laboring mechanic by profession, going to Toulouse, 
Montpellier, Nimes, Avignon, and possibly Toulon and 
Algiers, to seek employment and work at his trade. 

44 The devil! ” quoth the miller to himself; 44 a labor¬ 
ing mechanic ! beloved by a baroness ! looking for work, 
and might perhaps marry a woman who has still 300,000 
francs ! It is only with us, then, that money is thought 
more of than love, and the women are so proud ! There 
is not so much distance between the granddaughter of 
Father Bricolin the laborer, and the grandson of my 
grandfather the miller, as between a baroness and this 
poor devil! All! Mile. Rose! I wish Mme. Mar- 
celle could teach you the secret of loving! ” Then 
making up the personal description from the life instead 
of minding that in the passport, Grand-Louis went on to 
himself, examining Henri, who was absorbed in reading: 
“Middling height, pale face — good-looking enough, if 
you will, but the black beard is ugly. All these Paris¬ 
ian workmen look as if their strength lay in their chins.” 
And the miller took secret satisfaction in the comparison 
of his athletic limbs with Lemor’s more delicate organ¬ 
ization. 44 It seems to me,” soliloquized he, 44 that if it 
takes nothing more remarkable than this to turn a sen¬ 
sible woman’s, ay, and a fair lady’s, head, Mile. Rose 
might possibly perceive that her humble servant is not 
worse made than another. But for all that, these Paris¬ 
ians have a certain grace, a manner, black eyes, I don’t 
know what all, that makes us look like boobies beside 
them. And. then doubtless this fellow has more wit 
than size. If he could but give me a little, and teach 
me, too, his secret of winning love ! ” 




T 26 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

DIPLOMACY. 

T^ULL in the midst of his reflections, Master Louis 
suddenly perceived that the young man, lost in still 
more earnest meditation, was going away without think¬ 
ing of him. 

“ Hallo ! comrade ! ” cried Grand-Louis, running 
after him ; “ do you w r ant to leave me your passport? ” 
u Ah, my dear friend, I forgot you, and I ask your 
pardon ! ” answered Lemor. “ You did me the kindness 
to give me this letter, and I owe you a thousand thanks. 
But I recognize you now. I have seen you before, not 
long since. I received hospitality at your mill—a 
lovely place—and such a good mother! You are a 
happy man, for it is plain to see that you are both open- 
hearted and obliging.” 

“ Yes, a beautiful hospitality to talk about! ” said the 
miller. “ But, after all, it was your own fault if you 
would take nothing but bread and water. That gave 
me a bad opinion of you, that and your Capuchin’s 
beard! However, you do not look much more like a 
Jesuit than I do, and if you recall my face, so do I 
yours. As to being a happy man, you had better envy 
other people, and especially me ! Are you jesting?” 

“ I do not know what you mean. Has any misfor¬ 
tune happened to you since I saw you ? ” 

u Bah ! my misfortune is an old one, and God knows 
how it will end! But I have no more desire to speak 
than you to hear of it, for I see that you, too, have a 
buzzing in your brain. What then !' are you not going 
to give me a word of answer for the person who wrote 
to you, if it were only to certify that I fulfilled my 
commission? ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


127 

“Then you know that person?” said Lemor, all 
trembling. 

“ There now 1 yoa had not thought to ask me. 
Where are your wits ? ” 

Lemor began to be annoyed by the friendly, but ban¬ 
tering and jocose, manner of Grand-Louis. He was 
afraid of compromising Marcelle, and yet this peasant’s 
countenance was not one to inspire distrust. But Heiiri 
thought he should affect indifference. 

“ I have not, myself, much acquaintance,” said he, 
“ with the lady who has done me the honor to write to 
me. As chance lately took me near her estates in the 
country, she thought that I might give* her some infor¬ 
mation —” . 

“ Not you, indeed ! ” interrupted the miller, “ as she 
has no idea that you have been there, still less why you 
came, and that is what I pray you to tell me, if you 
would not have me guess.” 

“ That is what I will answer some other time,” said 
Lemor, with some impatience and sarcastic pride. “ You 
are inquisitive, friend, and I know not why you choose 
to think my conduct mysterious.” 

“ It is so, friend ! I tell you that it is so, because you 
did not let her know that you had been to the Black 
Valley! ” 

The miller’s pertinacity became more and more em¬ 
barrassing, and Henri, fearing lest he should fall into 
some snare, or commit some imprudence, endeavored to 
free himself from this odd investigation. 

“I know neither of whom nor of what you wish to 
speak to me,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. 
“ Again I thank you, and take my leave. If an answer 
or receipt is needed for the letter which you brought 
me, I will send it by post. I start in an hour for 
Toulouse, and have not time to stay here longer with 
you.” 

“ Ah, you are going to Toulouse ! ” said the miller, 
redoubling his pace to follow him. “ I should have 
thought that you would go to Blanchemont with me.” 

“ Why to Blanchemont? ” 



128 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBA UL T. 


“ Because if you have any advice to give the lady of 
Blanchemont upon her affairs, as you pretend, it would 
be more polite to go and speak with her than to write 
two hasty words. She is well worth the trouble of 
putting one’s self many leagues out of one’s way to do her 
a service ; and as for me, who am but a miller, I would . 
go to the ends of the earth for her.” 

Thus informed, almost in spite of himself, of the spot 
chosen by Marcelle for her temporary retreat, Lemor 
could not determine to part rudely from a man who 
knew her, and seemed so ready to talk about her. His 
young brain, which was voluntarily stoic, but deeply 
shaken by passion, was dazzled by the sort of proposi¬ 
tion or advice given him to go to Blanchemont. He 
imagined that he concealed the contradictory desires and 
resolutions which agitated him, but the penetrating 
miller was not to be deceived, and read the perplexity of 
his mind written on his face. “If I thought,” said 
Lemor at last, “ that verbal explanations were necessary 
«— but indeed I do not — this lady intimates nothing of 
the kind—” 

“ Yes,” replied the miller in a mocking tone; “ this 
lady thinks you in Paris, and one does not send for a 
man to come so far for a few words. But perhaps if 
she had known you were so near, she would have 
ordered me to bring you back with me.” 

“ No, Master Miller, you are mistaken,” said Henri, 
alarmed at Grand-Louis’s penetration. “The questions I 
have the honor to receive are not important enough for 
that. I will decidedly reply by letter.” 

And in choosing this latter course, Henri felt as if his 
heart would break. For notwithstanding his submission 
to Marcelle's commands, all his energetic blood boiled at 
the idea of seeing her once more before leaving her for 
a whole year. But this cursed miller, with his com¬ 
mentaries, might, through malice or levity, make this 
step injure the young widow, and Lemor felt that he 
must deny himself. 

“You will do as you please,” said Grand-Louis, some¬ 
what piqued by his reserve ; “ but as she will doubtless 


THE MILLER OF ANGTBAULT. 


I3 9 


question me about you, I shall be obliged to tell her that 
you seemed no way pleased at the idea of comma- to see 
her.” 

“ She will certainly be much distressed! ” answered 
Lemor, with a forced laugh. 

“Yes, yes! play Master Sly with me, comrade!” 
retorted the miller. “ But you do not laugh from your 
heart.” 

“ Mr. Miller,” replied Lemor, losing all patience, 
“your insinuations, as far as I can understand them, 
begin to be quite mistimed. I do not know whether you 
are as much devoted to the person in question as you 
pretend; but it does not seem to me that you speak of 
her with as much respect as I, who scarcely know her.” 

“You are angry? So much the better! it is more 
frank, and teases me less than your jesting. Now I 
know how to deal with you.” 

“This is too much,” said the irritated Lemor, “and 
looks like a personal provocation. I do not know what 
absurd ideas you may attribute to me, but I warn you 
that I am tired of this game, and will not endure your 
impertinence much longer.” 

“Are you getting angry in earnest?” said Grand- 
Louis, calmly. “ I am ready to satisfy you. I am 
much stronger than you, but you are doubtless compan¬ 
ion in some order, and understand single-stick. And, 
besides, they say that you Parisians all know the use of 
the quarter-staff as well as professors. Now we know 
nothing of the theory, we have only the practice. You 
are probably more skilful than I — as for me, I shall hit 
harder than you — that will make the match even. We 
will go behind the old rampart, if you like, or better, to 
Father Robichon’s cafe. He has a little court where we 
can come to a good understanding without interruption, 
for he knows too much to call the police.” 

“ Come,” said Lemor, to himself, “ I have chosen to 
be a workman, and the laws of honor are as strict with 
the stick as with the sword. I do not know the savage 
art of killing a fellow-creature any better with one weapon 

9 


3° 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


than with another. But if this Gallic Hercules desires 
the pleasure of mauling me, I will not avoid it by talk¬ 
ing sense to him. Besides, it is the only way to get rid 
of his questions, and I do not see why I should be more 
patient than a gentleman.” 

The generous and pacific miller had no desire to fix 
a quarrel upon Henri, as the latter supposed, from not 
understanding his real interest in Mme. de Blanchemont, 
and consequently in himself; it was simply the distrust 
mingled with this last sentiment, from which Grand- 
Louis wished to free his mind by an open explanation. 
Not succeeding, he thought himself provoked in his turn, 
and, on their way to the Cafe Robichon, each of the ad¬ 
versaries was persuaded that he was forced to comply 
with the belligerent temper of the other. 

The clock of a neighboring steeple struck six as they 
came to the cafe. It was a small house, adorned with 
the pompous title “ Cafe de la Renaissance,” now seen upon 
every little provincial cabaret. They entered through a 
narrow alley, bordered with young acacias and superb 
dahlias. The little court of explanations was beneath the 
wall of a Gothic church, covered in this place with ivy 
and climbing roses. Arbors of honeysuckle and clematis 
protected it from intrusive eyes, and perfumed the morn¬ 
ing air. This flowery nook, now solitary and neatly 
sanded, seemed intended rather for a lover’s trysting- 
place than for scenes of a tragic nature. 

Grand-Louis ushered Lemor in, closed the gate behind 
him, and then, seating himself at a small green wooden 
table — 

u So, then ! ” said he, “ are we here to deal each other 
blows, or to take a cup of coffee together ? ” 

“ Just as you please,” replied Lemor. “ I will fight 
with you if you wish ; but I will take no coffee.” 

“You are too proud for that! plain enough why,” 
said Grand-Louis, with a shrug. “ When one receives 
letters from a baroness ! ” 

“ You are beginning again? Come, either let me be 
off, or let us fight at once.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


I 3 I 

u I cannot fight with you,” said the miller. “ You 
need ouly look at me, I think, to see that I am no cow¬ 
ard, and yet I refuse the match you offer me. Mme. de 
Blanchemont would never forgive me, and that would 
ruin me altogether.” 

“What matter for that? If you think Mme. de 
Blanchemont would blame you for being quarrelsome, 
you need not tell her that you picked the quarrel.” 

“So! then it was I who picked the quarrel? Who 
was it spoke first of fighting?” 

“ It seems to me that nobody except yourself has 
spoken of it, but it is very little matter. I accept the 
proposal.” 

“ But who, then, insulted the other? I said nothing to 
you but what was civil, and you treated me as imper¬ 
tinent.” 

“You interpreted my words and my thoughts in an 
unmannerly fashion. I requested you to let me alone.” 

“ Oh! that is it! Y r ou bid me hold my tongue! 
And supposing I will not, what then ? ” 

“ I shall turn my back upon you, and if you take it 
ill, we will fight.” 

“ This fellow is obstinate as all the devils! ” cried 
Grand-Louis, striking with his huge fist upon the little 
table, which was cleft by the blow. 

“ There! Mr. Parisian ! you see what a heavy hand 
that is! Your pride might give me a fancy to try 
whether your head were as hard as that oaken board ; 
for there is nothing on earth more insolent than to say to 
a man, ‘ I will not hear you.’ And yet I ought not. I 
cannot injure a hair of that iron head. Hark you! we 
must make an end of this. Still, I wish you well, and 
above all do I wish well to a certain person for whom I 
would break my arms and legs, and who has, I am sure, 
a fancy for interesting herself in you. We must under¬ 
stand one another; I will ask you no more questions, 
since it is lost pains, but I will tell you all that 1 have on 
my mind for and against you ; and when I have done, if 
you are not suited, we will, fight; and if what I suspect 
of you is true, I should not be sorry to break your jaw. 



l 3 2 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Come, it is best to make matters clear before trying 
strength, and know why one does it! We will have 
coffee, for I am fasting since yesterday, and my stomach 
cries for mercy. If you are too great a lord to let me 
pay the scot, let us agree that the least maimed of the 
two shall settle it after all is over.” 

u Agreed ! ” said Henri, who, considering himself on 
hostile terms with the miller, thought there could be no 
risk of forgetting himself with him through friendliness. 

Father Robichon himself brought the coffee, testifying 
all manner of kindness towards Grand-Louis. “ Is he 
one of thy friends? ” said he, looking at Lemor with the 
curiosity always felt by tradespeople in small towns, who 
have not much to do. “I do not know him, but it is 
all the same ; he must be good for something, since thou 
bringest him to me. Look you, my boy,” added he, ad¬ 
dressing Lemor, u you have made a good acquaintance 
on coming our way. You could not have had better 
luck. Grand-Louis is esteemed by each and all. I now— 
I love him like a sou. Oh, he is so wise, good, and gen¬ 
tle— gentle as a lamb, though he is the strongest man in 
the country — but I can truly say that never, no, never, 
has he made any disturbance. He would not give a cuff 
to a child, and I never heard him raise his voice in my 
house. God knows that there are often quarrelsome 
people here, but he always brings peace with him.” 

This eulogium, so oddly timed at the moment when 
Grand-Louis had brought a stranger to the Cafe Robichon 
to try a quarrel with him, made both the young men 
smile. 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL T. 


33 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE FORD OF THE VAUVRE, 



TIE panegyric appeared, nevertheless, so sincere, that 


A Lemor, already disposed to great sympathy for the 
miller, and reflecting on the singularity of his conduct in 
this instance, began to consider that this man must have 
powerful motives for questioning him. They took coffee 
together with much mutual politeness, and when Father 
Robichon had left them to themselves, the miller began 


thus 


“ Sir (I must call you so since I do not know whether 
we are friends or foes), you must know in the first place 
that I am in love, by your good pleasure, with a girl too 
rich for me, and who loves me only just euougli not to 
detest me. Thus I can speak of her without compro¬ 
mising her; and besides, you do not know her. I do 
not like, however, to talk of my love, it is tiresome for 
others, especially when they have been stung by the same 
fly, and are, as is customary in this malady, devilish 
egotists, caring everything for themselves and nothing 
for their neighbors. Nevertheless, as one gains nothing 
by working all alone to remove a mountain, I am of 
opinion that by a little mutual friendly assistance some¬ 
thing at least might be done, and this is why I desired 
your confidence, since I have that of the lady whom you 
well know, and why I give you mine without any particu¬ 
lar certainty of its being well placed. 

“Well, then, the girl I love will have for her dowry 
30,000 francs more than I, and, as times are, I might as 
well think of marrying the Empress of China. I do not 
care a snap for her 30,000 francs ; indeed I may say 
that I wish them at the bottom of the sea, since it is they 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


l 34 

who separate us. But love never yet listened to hin- 
derances; although I am penniless, I am in love; I 
can think of nothing else ; and if the lady, whom you well 
know, does not come to my relief, as she has given me 
to hope, I am a lost man — I may — I don’t know what 
I may not do ! ” 

While speaking thus, there came so dark a change over 
the miller’s usually jovial face, that Lemor was struck by 
the strength and sincerity of his passion. 

“Well, then,” said he to him, cordially, “since you 
have the protection of so good and intelligent a lady — 
she is called so at least! — ” 

“ I do not know what she is called” retorted Grand- 
Louis, out of patience with the young man’s obstinate re¬ 
serve ; “ I know what I myself think, and I tell you that 
this woman is an angel of heaven. The worse for you, 
if you do not know it! ” 

“ In that case,” said Lemor, unable to resist the sin¬ 
cerity of this homage to Marcelle, “ what are you aiming 
at, my dear M. Grand-Louis ? ” 

“ I wish to tell you, that seeing this good, noble, and 
pure-hearted woman disposed kindly towards me, and al¬ 
ready beginning to give me hope when I thought all lost, 
I am attached to her at once and forever. Friendship 
came to me, as they say in romances that love comes, in 
a flash, and now I want to return beforehand all the 
good that this woman intends to do me. I want her to 
be happy as she deserves, happy in her affections, since 
she cares for nothing else in the world, and despises for¬ 
tune, happy in the love of a man who shall love her for 
herself, and not be busy in calculating what remains of 
the wealth she loses so joyously — only thinking how 
to find out what she does or does not possess — that he 
may know whether to rejoin her, or take himself far 
away from her — forget her, doubtless—and try if his 
pretty face can make another more lucrative conquest — 
for — ” 

Lemor interrupted the miller. 

“What reason have you,” said he, turning pale, “to 
fear that this worthy lady has so misplaced her affec- 


THE MILLER OF ANCl/BAtlLT. 


135 

tions? Who is the villain to whom you impute such 
dastardly conduct?” 

“I know nothing about it,” said the miller, attentively 
observant of Henri’s agitation, and not yet certain 
whether to attribute it to the indignation of conscious 
rectitude or the shame of detection. “ All that I know 
is that there came to my mill, some fortnight since, a 
young man of very honest face and manners, who seemed 
to have some weight upon his mind, and, all at once, be¬ 
gan to talk of money, to ask questions, take notes, and 
at last to assure himself in francs and centimes, on a bit 
of paper, that a pretty slice of her fortune was still left 
to the lady of Blanchemont.” 

u The truth is, you think this fellow was ready to de¬ 
clare his love only in case the marriage appeared advan¬ 
tageous to him ? Then he was a scoundrel; but to have 
guessed so well, one’s self need be — ” 

“ Go on, Parisian ! Don’t pick your words,” said the 
miller, whose eyes flashed like lightning. “We are here 
to understand one another ! ” 

“ I say,” repeated Lemor, not less provoked, “ that 
when a man makes such interpretation of the conduct of 
another with whom he is not acquainted, and of whom 
he knows nothing, he must be himself much in love with 
his mistress’s dowry.” 

The miller’s eyes faded, and a cloud passed over his 
brow. 

“Ah!” said he, in a mournful tone, “I know that 
might be said, and I warrant that many people would say 
so, if I succeeded iu making myself beloved! But only 
let her father disinherit her, which would certainly hap¬ 
pen if she were to love me, and then they should see if I 
would count up what she had lost on my fingers ! ” 

“ Miller! ” said Lemor, in a frank and hasty tone, “ I 
do not accuse you. I do not wish to suspect you. But 
how is it, that w'ith an honest soul, you have not sup¬ 
posed what is most likely and most worthy of you?” 

“ The young man’s feeling would be shown by his sub¬ 
sequent actions. If he rushed with transport to his deaf 
lady ! — I say nothing ; but if he takes himself to the devil 
that is another affair ! ” 


TIIE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


136 

“It should be presumed,” answered Lemor, “ that he 
looked upon his love as madness, and did not wish to ex¬ 
pose himself to a refusal.” 

“ Ah ! there you are ! ” cried the miller. “ Here come 
the lies again! I know positively that the lady is re¬ 
joiced to have lost her fortune, that she has also taken 
bravely her share in her son’s total ruin, and all because 
she loves some one, whom, without all these catastrophes, 
it might have been called a crime in her to marry.” 

“ Her son is ruined? ” said Lemor, starting ; “ totally 
ruined ? Is it possible ? Are you sure of it ? ” 

“ Perfectly sure, my boy! ” replied the miller, in a 
jeering manner. “ The administratrix, who, during a 
long minority, might have shared the interest of a large 
capital with a lover or husband, will have nothing but 
debts to pay, so that her intention, as she told me last 
night, is to have her boy learn some trade for a living.” 

Henri had left his seat, and was pacing the little court 
with agitated steps, and the expression of his face was 
indefinable. Grand-Louis, who did not take his eyes off 
him, questioned with himself whether he was at the 
height of joy or disappointment. “We will see,” thought 
he, “ whether he is a man, like her and like me, hating 
the riches wLich thwart love, or an adventurer who has 
won her love by some inconceivable craft, and whose am¬ 
bition looks higher than the enjoyment of the little rev¬ 
enue which is left to her.” 

After a few moments’ thought, Grand-Louis, who had 
set his heart on giving Marcelle a great pleasure, or rid¬ 
ding her of a deceiver by unmasking him, imagined a 
strategem. 

“ Come, my boy ! ” said he, in a milder voice, “ you 
are vexed ! There is no harm in that. Everybody Is not 
romantic, and if you were thinking of the cash, you were 
only like all the people nowadays. You see now that I 
have not done you an ill turn by quarrelling with you; 
you have learned that the jointure has run dry. You 
doubtless reckoned on the profits of the young heir’s 
minority, for you were aware that the famous three hun¬ 
dred thousand francs was a last, a sheer illusion of the 
widow’s?” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


13 7 

“ What do you say? ” cried Lemor, pausing in his hur¬ 
ried walk ; “is this last resource taken from her?” 

“ To be sure ! don’t pretend not to know it; you took 
your information too carefully not to know that Farmer 
Bricolin’s debt is quadruple what was supposed, and that 
the lady of Blanchemont will have to sue for a tobacco * 
or post-office, to have the means of sending her son to 
school.” 

“ Is it possible?” repeated Lemor, confounded and al¬ 
most stupefied by this news. “ So sudden a change in her 
destiny ! A stroke from heaven ! ” 

“ Yes, a thunder-stroke ! ” said the miller, with a bitter 
laugh. 

“ Oh ! tell me, is she not at all affected? ” 

“ Oil! not in the least. So far from it, on the con¬ 
trary, she fancies that you will only love her the better. 
But you — not such a fool, are you ? ” 

“ My dear friend,” replied Lemor, without hearing a 
word, “ what have you told me? And I, who wanted to 
fight with you — you have done me a great service! 
When I was about—you are sent to me by Providence ! ” 
Grand-Louis, attributing this effusion to Lemor’s satis¬ 
faction in being warned in time of the ruin of his merce¬ 
nary hopes, turned away his head in disgust, and remained 
for some instants absorbed in deep melancholy. 

“To see so confiding and disinterested a woman,” said 
he to himself, “ cozened by such a puppy! She must 
have as little judgment as he has heart. I ought to have 
thought, indeed, that she was very imprudent, when in a 
single day, the first time I ever saw her, she let me dis¬ 
cover all her secrets. She is ready to yield her good 
heart to the first comer. Oh ! I must scold her, warn 
her, put her on her guard against herself in everything! 
And to begin, I must rid her of this rogue. One might 
tear the rascal’s ear a little, or give him a mark on his 
fine viznomy , that should hinder him from showing him¬ 
self so soon among the ladies — Hallo ! Mr. Parisian ! ” 
said he, without turning round, and endeavoring to make 


* Tobacco, in France, is a government monopoly. — Tr. 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


*38 

his voice calm and clear ; “ you have heard me, and now 
you know how much I think of you. I know what I 
wished to know — you are nothing but a scoundrel. That 

my opinion, and I will prove it to you immediately, if 
f-ou will please to permit it.” 

While speaking, the miller had phlegmatically turned 
ap his sleeves, intending to use only his fists, and he now 
rose and turned, surprised at his adversary’s delay in an¬ 
swering. But to his great astonishment, he found him¬ 
self alone in the court. He ran through the dahlia alley, 
hunted in all the corners of the Cafe Robichon, surveyed 
all the neighboring streets ; Lemor had disappeared. No 
one had seen him go out. Indignant and almost furious, 
Grand-Louis sought for him vainly all through the town. 

After an hour of useless investigation, the miller was 
out of breath, and began to be tired and discouraged. 

“It is all the same,” said he to himself, sitting down 
upon a stone ; u there shall not a diligence or a pat ache 
leave the town this day, but I will count the passengers, 
and look every one of them in the face. This gentleman 
shall not go off without — but pshaw ! I am mad ! Is 
he not on foot, and does not a man who shirks paying a 
debt of honor take to the fields without drum or trumpet? 
And then,” added he, growing calmer by degrees, “ my 
dear Madame Marcelle would doubtless be angry with 
me for thrashing her gallant. That is no way to cure so 
strong an attachment; and perhaps the poor woman will 
not believe me when I tell her that her Parisian is a true 
Marchois,* How can I undeceive her ? It is my duty ; 
and yet, when I think of the pain I shall give her— Dear 
lady of the good God ! Is it possible one can be so de¬ 
luded?” 

While thus talking with himself, the miller remembered 
that he had a carriage to sell, and went to a wealthy ex¬ 
farmer, who, after long examination and cheapening, was 
finally decided by his fear lest M. Bricolin should seize 


* The natives of La Marche are, with or without reason, in 
such bad odor with their neighbors of Berri, that Marchois is 
synonymous with cheat. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


*39 

upon a thing which was at once an article of luxury and 
a good bargain. 44 Buy it, M. Ravelard,” said Grand- 
Louis, with the admirable patience which belongs to the 
Berrichons, when, perfectly understanding that their terms 
are to be accepted, they politely feign to be duped by the 
assumed uncertainty of the purchaser. 44 1 have told you 
two hundred times already, and I will repeat it as often 
as you wish, it is good and handsome, fine and substan¬ 
tial. It came from the first establishment in Paris, and 
you get it free of freight. You know me too well to think 
I would be concerned in the business if there were any 
trap under it. Besides, I ask no commission of you, 
which you would have to pay to anybody else. See ! it 
is clear profit! ” 

The buyer’s irresolutions lasted till evening. It tore 
his soul to pay down the crowns. When Grand-Louis 
saw the sun setting — 

44 Come,” said he, 44 I do not want to sleep here, and I 
am off. I see that you will not have this pretty shining 
wagon, as cheap as it is. I shall harness Sophie to 
it, and go back to Blanchemont as proud as Pompey. It 
will be the first time in my life that I drive a carriage; 
that will divert me, and I shall be yet more diverted to 
see Father and Mother Bricolin strut into it to go to La 
Chatre of a Sunday! I still think that you and your 
wife would cut a finer figure in it.” 

At length, as the night came on, M. Ravelard counted 
out the money, and had the fine carriage put under his 
coach-house. Grand-Louis loaded his cart with Mme. 
de Blanchemont’s effects, put the two thousand francs in a 
leathern girdle, and started with Sophie at full trot, sitting 
on a trunk, and singing at the top of his voice, notwith¬ 
standing the jolts and the rumbling of his great wheels 
over the pavement. 

He drove quickly, with no risk of losing his way, like 
the patachon, and the moon had not yet risen when lie 
passed the pretty village of Mers. The chilling mist, 
that even in the warmest summer nights floats over the 
numerous embanked streams of the Black Valley, lay in 
white sheets, that might have been mistaken for lakes, 


140 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


over the low places in the vast and gloomy extent of coun¬ 
try opening before him. The harvesters’ cries and the 
shepherds’ song had already ceased, and soon the glow¬ 
worms, gleaming here and there on the roadside, were 
the only living creatures on the miller’s way. 

Nevertheless, while crossing one of the marshy tracts 
made by the windings of rivers in a country otherwise so 
fertile and so scrupulously cultivated, he thought he saw 
a dim figure running through the reeds before him, which 
stopped at the edge of the ford as if to wait for him. 

Grand-Louis was not much subject to fear. However, 
as he had on this occasion to defend a little property, of 
which he was more careful than if it had been his own, 
he hastened to rejoin his cart, for he had come part of the 
way on foot,, as much to stretch his limbs as to ease his 
faithful Sophie. Finding the leathern girdle inconven¬ 
ient, he had put it in a sack of corn. When he had re¬ 
mounted his car, which he facetiously called, after the 
country fashion, his equipage hung on wagon-leather , 
that is, on plain wood, he took a firm stand on his legs, 
armed himself with his whip, whose heavy handle ren¬ 
dered it a weapon of double action, and upright as a 
soldier on duty he drove straight up to the night-travel¬ 
ler, gayly chanting a stanza from an old comic opera, 
which Rose had taught him in his childhood: 

“ Our miller’s purse is full of gold, 

And now for home lie gayly pushes, 

When on the way he hears, I’m told, 

A monstrous rustling in the bushes. 

Our miller is a sturdy fellow, 

But then, they say, he turned quite yellow. 

So, friends, beware, 

Take mickle care, 

Through the Black Valley never wander.” 

I believe that the song has it “ the Black Forest” ; but 
Grand-Louis, who mocked at poetic rule as much as at 
ghosts and robbers, amused himself with adapting the 
words to his own situation, and this simple stanza, for¬ 
merly much in vogue, but now sung only at the mill of 
Angibault, often beguiled the tedium of his solitary rides. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 141 

When he was near the man, who firmlv awaited him, 
he saw that the post was well chosen for an attack. The 
ford was not, indeed, deep, but encumbered with large 
stones, which obliged a horse to walk carefully ; and be¬ 
sides, the descent into the water was so steep as to make 
it necessary to hold in the reins lest the animal should 
fall. 

“We shall see,” said Grand-Louis to himself, with 
great composure and prudence. 





THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

HENRI. 

HPHE wayfarer did in fact advance to the horse’s head, 
and Grand-Louis, who, during his roundelay, had 
dexterously fastened to his whip-lash a ball of lead 
pierced for the purpose, had already raised his arm to 
make him let go, when a voice that he knew said ami¬ 
cably : 

“ Master Louis, permit me to cross the water in your 
vehicle.” 

“ Oh ho ! my dear Parisian ! ” replied the miller; 
“ delighted to see you. I hunted for you long enough 
this morning ! Up, up, — I have two words to say to 
you.” 

“ And as for me, I have more than two to ask of you,” 
answered Henri Lemor, springing into the cart, and 
taking a seat on the trunk beside him, with the confidence 
of a man who expects nothing disagreeable. 

“ This is a bold dog,” thought the miller, who, in the 
first return of his rancor, could hardly restrain himself 
till they should reach the other bank. “ Do you know, 
comrade,” said he, laying his heavy hand upon the other’s 
shoulder, “ that I do not know what keeps me from turn¬ 
ing about to the right, and giving you a ducking under 
the sluice there?” 

“ It is an amusing idea,” answered Lemor, quietly, 
“ and practicable to a certain degree. Still, my dear 
friend, I think I should make a stout defence, for to-night 
is the first time for a long while that I hold to my life 
tenaciously.” 

“ Now ! ” said the miller, as he drew up on the sand 
at the other side of the stream. “We can talk better 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


H3 


here. First and foremost, do me the kindness, my dear 
sir, to tell me where you are going?” 

u I do not know myself,” said Lemor, laughing. u I 
believe I shall follow where chance leads. Is it not a 
fine evening for a walk ? ” 

“ Not so fine as you think, my master, and you may 
go back in worse weather, if such be my good pleasure. 
You chose to come into my cart. It is my travelling 
fortress, and people do not always get out as they got 
in.” 

“A truce to repartee, Grand-Louis,” returned Lemor, 
u and whip up your horse. I can laugh no more, I feel 
too much — ” 

“ Confess the truth, you are afraid.” 

u Yes, dreadfully afraid, like the miller in your song, 
and you will understand when I tell you — if I can speak 
— I have scarcely my senses.” 

“ In short, where are you going? ” said the miller, who 
began to fear he had misjudged Lemor, and recovering 
his reason, which had been lost in his auger, asked him¬ 
self whether a guilty man would thus voluntarily place 
himself again in his power. 

“ Where are you going yourself?” said Lemor. “ To 
Angibault, near Blanchemont? I, too, go in that direc¬ 
tion, without knowing whether I shall dare to go quite 
there. But you have heard of the loadstone which at¬ 
tracts the iron ? ” 

“ I do not know whether you are made of iron,” re¬ 
turned the miller, “ but I know there is a famous load¬ 
stone that way for me also. Come, my boy, you would 
wish — ” 

“ I wish nothing, I dare not wish anything! and yet 
she is ruined, entirely ruined? Why should I go away?” 

“ What could make you want to go so far, to Africa, 
to the devil ? ” 

u I believed her still rich ; as I told you, compared 
to my situation, 300,000 francs was opulence.” 

“ But since she loved you, notwithstanding? ” 

“And do you imagine that I could have accepted 
money with love? I can feign no longer with you. 


H4 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


friend. I see that things have been confided to you 
which I would not have avowed, had we come to blows 
upon it. But I reflected, after leaving you so abruptly, 
when I scarce knew what I was doing, and felt my heart 
so big with joy that I could not have held my tongue — 
yes, I reflected on all that you had said, and saw that 
you knew all, and that it was absurd in me to fear indis¬ 
cretion from so devoted a friend to — ” 

“ Marcelle! ” said the miller, with a little vanity at 
being able familiarly to pronounce this Christian name, 
as in his mind he defined it, in opposition to the aristo¬ 
cratic title of the lady of Blanchemont. 

Lemor thrilled at this name. It sounded in his ear for 
the first time. As he had never had any connection 
with those who surrounded Mme. de Blanchemont, and 
never confided the secret of his love to any one, he knew 
not from other lips the sound of this cherished name, 
which he had read with such reverence at the end of 
many a note, and never himself dared to pronounce but 
in moments of despair or rapture. He seized the miller’s 
arm, divided between the desire to make him repeat it, 
and the fear of profaning it by giving it to the solitary 
echoes. 

u Well, then,” said Grand-Louis, touched by his emo¬ 
tion, “ you have at last found out that you neither should 
nor could distrust me? But would you have me tell you 
the truth ? I still distrust you a little. It is in spite of 
myself, but the idea pursues me, quits me, and again 
seizes me. Let us see, — where have you been all day ? 
I thought you were hid in a cellar ! ” 

“ I should have been, I believe, if I had found one 
convenient,” said Lemor, with a smile, “I so much 
needed to hide my distress and my rapture. Do you 
know, my friend, that I was going to Africa, intending 
never again to see — her whom you have just named? 
Yes, notwithstanding the note you brought me, which 
commanded me to return in one year, I felt that my con¬ 
science exacted a dreadful sacrifice. And even to-day I 
was filled with fear and uncertainty ; for if I, a working¬ 
man, have no longer to combat the shame of marrying a 


TIIE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


T 45 


rich woman, still there remains the enmity of race, the 
struggle of the plebeiau against the patricians, who will 
persecute this noble woman for a choice they will deem 
unworthy. Yet there may be cowardice in avoiding this 
crisis. It is not her fault that she is of the blood of the op¬ 
pressors, and then, too, the power of the nobility has passed 
into other hands. Their opinion has lost its force, and 
perhaps she — who deigns to prefer me — will not meet 
universal blame. Still, is it not terrible to involve the 
woman one loves in a contest with her family, and to 
draw upon her the blame of all those with whom she 
has always lived! These attachments are secondary, 
it is true, but numerous and dear. A generous heart 
cannot break from them without regret, and by what 
other affections shall I replace them ? For I am isolated 
upon the earth, as the poor always are, and the people do 
not yet understand how to greet those who come to them 
from such a distance, and through so many obstacles. 
Alas ! I spent part of the day under a hedge, I know 
not where, in a retired place where I chanced to be, and 
it was only after hours of anguish and earnest thought 
that I determined to seek you, and ask you to procure 
me an hour’s interview with her. I sought you in vain, 
and perhaps you, too, were looking for me, for it was you 
who filled my brain with this burning idea of going to 
Blanchemont. But I believe that you are imprudent and 
I mad, for she forbid my kuowing even where she had 
retired, and she fixed, for the propriety of her mourning, 
the delay of a year.” 

u Is it so indeed? ” said Grand-Louis, somewhat fright¬ 
ened at having aroused in Marcelle’s lover the idea of 
going to see her, by the suggestion he had thought so in¬ 
genious in the morning. u Are these notions of propriety 
of which you speak so serious in your mind, and is it nec¬ 
essary that a year, neither more nor less, should pass 
after the death of a wicked husband, before an honest 
woman can see the face of an honest man who intends 
to marry her ? Is that the custom at Paris ? ” 

“ Not more at Paris than elsewhere. The religious feel¬ 
ing belonging to the mystery of death is everywhere, 


10 


146 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


doubtless, the nearest arbiter of the greater or less time 
granted to the remembrance of the funeral rites.” 

u I know that it is a right feeling which has established 
the custom of testifying mourning in dress, habits, and 
general conduct; but is there not danger of its degener¬ 
ating into hypocrisy, when there is really little to regret 
in the deceased, and when love speaks plainly in favor of 
another? Is it necessary to the decent demeanor of a 
widow that her suitor should expatriate himself, and 
never pass her door, or even glance at her when she does 
not appear to see ? ” 

“ You do not know, my dear fellow, the malignity of 
those who call themselves people of the world. It is a 
singular denomination, and yet just in their eyes, since 
they count the people as nothing, and arrogate the em¬ 
pire of the world, which they have always had, and have 
still — for a time ! ” 

“ It is not hard for me to credit,” cried the miller, 
“ that they are more wicked than we ! And yet,” he 
added mournfully, “ we are not as good as we should be ! 
We, too, babble, and taunt, and condemn the weak. Yes, 
you are right, we must guard against evil being spoken 
of this dear lady. With time she will be known, be¬ 
loved, and respected as she deserves, but now a single 
day might bring an accusation of light conduct against 
her. So it is my advice that you should not show your¬ 
self at Blanchemont.” 

u You are a man of good judgment, Grand-Louis, and 
I was sure that you would not let me do anything wrong. 
I will have the courage to listen to your reasonable 
opinion, as I had the folly to take fire at the first impulse 
of your kind feeling. I will talk with you till we are 
near your mill, and then I will return to * * *, and 
continue my journey to-morrow.” 

“ Come! come! you go from one extreme to the 
other,” said the miller, who had let his patient Sophie 
walk, while talking with Lemor. “ Angibault is a leaguo 
from Blanchemont, and you can easily pass the night 
there without compromising any one. My old mother 
will be the only woman you will find to-night, and that 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


*47 


will make no gossip. You have liad a pretty walk from 
* * * here, and I should have neither heart nor soul if 
I did not force you to accept a bed, with what the curate, 
who does not fancy them, calls a frugal supper. Be¬ 
sides, must not you write? You will find all that is nec¬ 
essary with us — beautiful letter-paper, for example ! I 
am clerk of my district, and I do not write my deeds upon 
vellum; but even if your amorous prose should lie on 
government stamped paper, that will not hinder it from 
being read, and perhaps twice rather than once. Come, 
I tell you, I see already the smoke of my supper rising 
among the trees; we will trot a little, for I will warrant 
that my old mother is hungry, and will not eat without 
me. I promised her I would be at home early.” 

Henri was dying to accept the good miller’s offer. For 
form’s sake he let himself be urged ; lovers dissemble 
like children. He had given up the folly of going to 
Blanchemont, but he was drawn in that direction as by a 
magic charm ; and each of Sophie’s steps which brought 
him nearer this centre of attraction, stirred the poor 
heart, just crushed by a struggle beyond its master’s 
strength. So he yielded, secretly blessing the miller’s 
hospitable urgency. 

“Mother!” cried the latter to Grand’-Marie, as he 
leaped from his cart, “ have I broken my word to you? 
If the good God’s clock is not out of order, the stars of 
the cross mark ten upon St. James’s Way.” * 

“ That is all,” said the good woman ; “ it is only an 
hour later than thou expectedst. But I will not scold 
thee. I see that thou hast done our dear lady’s errands. 
Dost thou mean to carry all that to Blanchemont 
to-night ? ” 

“No, by my faith! it is too late. Madame Marcelle 
told me that a day sooner or later did not matter. And 
then, too, can one get into the new chateau after ten 
o’clock? Have not they mended the embattled court 
wall, and put iron bars on the great gate? They are cap- 

*The cross is the constellation of the Swan, and the Milkv 
Way that of St. James. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


148 

able of setting up a drawbridge over their dry ditch ! 
The devil take me ! M. Bricolin thinks himself already 
lord of Blauchemont, and will soon have a coat-of-arms 
over his chimney. He will be called de Bricolin — but 
look here, mother, I bring you company Do you rec¬ 
ognize this lad ? ” 

“ Eh ! it is the gentleman of last month ! ” said Grand’- 
Marie ; “the one whom we took for one of the lady of 
Blanchemont’s agents ! But it seems she does not 
know him.” 

“ No, no, she does not know him at all,” said Grand- 
Louis, “ and he is no agent; he is a clerk of the registry 
for the new assessment of taxes. Come, geometer, sit 
down and eat while the meat is warm.” 

“ Tell us then, sir,” said the miller’s mother, when the 
first course, namely, the lentil soup, was despatched, 
“ was it you who wrote your name upon one of our trees 
on the river-bank?” 

“ It was I,” said Henri. “ I ask your pardon for it; 
perhaps my foolish school-boy trick killed the young 
willow ? ” 

“Saving your presence, it is a white birch,” said the 
miller. “ You are a true Parisian, and doubtless do not 
know flax from potatoes. But no matter. Our trees 
laugh at the strokes of your pen-knife, and my mother 
asks you only for talk.” 

“ Oh ! I would not say a word to you for a little tree. 
We have enough beside,” said the old woman, “ but our 
young lady was so troubled to know who could have cut 
that name there ! And her little boy read it all himself! 
Yes, sir, a child of four saw what I could never see in 
letters ! ” 

“She has been here then?” said Lemor inconsider¬ 
ately, and without full possession of his senses at the 
moment. 

“ What is that to you, since you do not know her?” 
answered Grand-Louis, giving him a great punch with 
his knee to remind him to feign, especially before his 
mill-boy. 

Lemor thanked him with a look, although the warning 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


M9 

was none of the gentlest; and fearing his own imprudence, 
did not again opeu his mouth, except to eat. 

When they separated for the night, as Lemor was to 
share the miller’s little room on the ground-floor, oppo¬ 
site the mill, he requested Grand-Louis not to fasten the 
door yet, but to let him walk awhile on the banks of the 
Vauvre. 

“ Pardy, and I will go with you,” said Grand-Louis, 
much interested in his new friend’s romance, by its re¬ 
semblance to his own. “ I know where you are going, 
and I am in no such hurry to sleep that I should not take 
a turn with you iu the moonlight, for there is the moon 
rising, and gleaming on the water. Come, my Parisian, 
see how silvery and proud she is in the basin of the 
Vauvre, and say if you ever have so fair a moon and so 
beautiful a river in Paris! There! ” he added, when 
they came to the foot of the tree, u there is where she 
leant while she read your name. She was this way 
against the rail, and she looked with eyes — such as I 
could never make, though I should spend two hours in 
opening mine. So then, you knew she would come here, 
that you left her your signature ? ” 

“The straugest thing about it is that I did not know 
it, and that mere chance — a childish caprice — sug¬ 
gested to me to leave this token of my passage through a 
lovely spot which I never thought to see again. I heard 
at Paris that she was ruined. I hoped so! I came to 
learn what I might depend upon, and when I found that 
she was still too rich for me, I thought only of bidding 
her farewell.” 

“ See you now! There is a God for lovers, or you 
never would have returned here, in fact. It was this — 
it was Mine. Marcelle’s manner when she questioned me 
about the young traveller who had cut this name —that 
made me guess all at once that she loved, and that her 
lover was named Henri. That was what sharpened my 
wits to divine the rest, for nothing has been said to me. 
I have guessed everything else, I must confess, though I 
boast of it also.” 

“ How ! nothing has been confided to you, and I have 


TIIE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


I 5° 

confessed all? God’s will be done! I see Ilis hand in 
all this, and I can no longer choose but yield to the ab¬ 
solute confidence with which you inspire me.” 

“ I wish I could say as much to you,” said Grand- 
Louis, takiug his hand, “ for may the devil pound me if 
I do not love you ! And still there is something that 
always worries me.” 

“ How can you yet still suspect me, when I return to 
your Black Valley only to breathe the air which she has 
breathed, when I know at last that she is poor? ” 

“But might not you have been among the notaries and 
lawyers while I was looking for you this morning? And 
if you had learned that she is still rich ? ” 

“What do you say? Can it be true?” cried Lemor, 
in a woful tone. “ Do not play so with me, friend ! you 
accuse me of things so absurd, that I do not even think 
of justifying myself. But one thing I must tell you in a 
word. If Madame de Blanchemont is still rich, though 
she would accept the love of a working-man like me, I 
must quit her forever. Oh ! if it be so, if I must know 
it, not yet, in Heaven’s name ! Let me dream of happi¬ 
ness till to-morrow, till I leave this country for a year, or 
forever! ” 

“ Now, good friend, you are a little cracked,” cried 
the miller. “And at this moment you even seem so 
exaggerated, that I fear lest it be an attempt to de¬ 
ceive me.” 

“You are not like me, then? You do not hate 
wealth? ” 

“No, I neither hate nor love it for itself, but for the 
good or evil it can do me. For example, I detest Father 
Bricolin’s gold, because it hinders me from marrying his 
daughter — ah! the deuce! I let slip names that you 
might as well be ignorant of—But I know your affairs, 
after all, and you may as well know mine. So I say 
that I detest that gold ; but I should heartily like to have 
thirty or forty thousand francs fall on me from the sky, 
and enable me to propose to Rose.” 

“ I do not think as you do. If I owned a million, I 
would not keep it.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


* 5 * 

“ You would throw it into the river rather than make 
a title from it to reestablish equality between her and 
you? Y'ou are a droll chap, after all.” 

“ I think I should distribute it among the poor, like the 
early communist Christians, so as to rid myself of it, 
though I know very well that it would not be doing any 
real good, for those first disciples of equality formed a 
society, when they gave up their property, and gave to 
the unfortunate a legislation which was at the same time 
a religion. That money was food for the soul as well as 
for the body. There was a doctrine of mutual division, 
and it had its adepts. There is nothing like it now. 
There is, indeed, the conception of a holy and providential 
community, but its laws are as yet unknown. The little 
world of the first Christians cannot be renewed, for this 
doctrine would be its first necessity ; we have it not, and 
besides, men are not disposed to receive it. The money 
which might be distributed among a handful of wretches 
would breed only selfishness and indolence in them, un¬ 
less they were at the same time instructed in the duties 
of association. Aud I repeat to you, friend, there is not 
yet on the one side intelligence enough in the initiators, 
nor on the other enough confidence, sympathy, and im¬ 
pulse in the initiated. This is why, when Marcelle (I 
dare name her, too, now that you have named Rose) pro¬ 
posed to me to do like the apostles, and give this wealth 
at which I shuddered to the poor, I recoiled before her 
sacrifice, for I did not feel in myself sufficient science and 
genius to make it fruitful in her hands for the progress of 
humanity. To possess riches aud render them useful, as 
I understand the term, there needs a man of more than 
heart — of genius. I am not such an one, and in think¬ 
ing on the rooted vices, the fearful selfishness induced by 
the possession of fortune, I feel myself cold with dread. 
I thank God for having made me poor — I, who just es¬ 
caped a large heritage — and I swear never to possess 
more than my week’s wages ! ” 

“ So, you thank God for having made you wise by a 
pure act of His goodness, and you profit by the chance 
that has preserved you from evil ? It is a mighty easy 


* 5 2 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


virtue;, and I am not so much amazed at it as you may 
think. Now I understand why Mme. Marcelle was so 
pleased yesterday at being ruined. You put all these 
fine things into her head ! It is very pretty, but it means 
nothing. What is it more than if one should say, ‘If I 
were rich, I should be wicked, and I am rejoiced not to 
be so*? It is just like my grandmother saying, ‘I do 
not like eels, and I am very glad of it, for if I liked them 
I should eat them.’ Let us see why should you not be 
rich and generous? Why, even if you did nothing better 
than to give bread to those around us who are in want, 
that would be already something, and the money would 
be better placed in your hands than in those of misers — 
oh, I know what you would have. I have understood — 
I am not so stupid* as you think, and I have read, now 
and then, newspapers and pamphlets, from which I know 
a little of what is going on beyond our farms, where it is 
true enough that there is nothing new — I see that you 
are a maker of new systems, an economist, a philosopher ! ” 

“ No. It is, perhaps, a misfortune, but I know less of 
the science of numbers than of any other, and nothing of 
what is at the present day understood by political econ¬ 
omy. It is a vicious circle, in which I can imagine no 
amusement in turning.” 

“ You have not studied a science without which you can 
try nothing new ? In that case, you are indolent.” 

“ No, but a dreamer.” 

“ I understand. You are what is called a poet.” 

“ I have never made verses, and now I am a workman. 
Do not take me so seriously. I am a child, and a love¬ 
sick child. My only merit is to have learned my trade, 
and I am about to practise it.” 

“ That is well! gain your living as I do mine, and do 
not plague yourself as to the way the world goes, since 
you can do nothing about it.” 

“ What reasoning, my friend ! Suppose you were 
bound to this tree, and saw a boat capsize on the river 
with a family on board ; would you see them perish with 
indifference because you could not help them ? ” 

“ No, sir, I would break the tree, were it ten times aa 



THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


r 53 

large. I should have such good will, that God would 
perform this little miracle for me.” 

“ And yet the human family perishes,” cried Lemor, 
mournfully’, 44 and God does no more miracles ! ” 

“ True enough ! nobody believes in Him. But I be¬ 
lieve in Him, and I declare to you, since we are in a way 
to keep nothing from each other, that in my secretest 
thought, I have never despaired of marrying Rose Bric- 
olin. Yet to bring her father to accept a poor son-in-law, 
would be a more amazing miracle than to break with my 
arm alone the great tree before you. Well! this miracle 
will be performed, I know not how; I shall have fifty 
thousand francs. I shall find them in the ground when 
I plant my cabbages, or in the river as I throw my nets, 
or some idea — no matter what — will come to me. I 
shall discover something, since an idea, they say, is 
enough to move the world.” 

44 You will discover the means of applying equality to 
a society which only exists through inequality, will you 
not?” said Henri, with a melancholy smile. 

44 Why not, sir?” returned the miller, with cheerful 
vivacity. u When I have my fortune, as I should not 
like to be avaricious and wicked, and as I am very sure 
of never becoming either, any more than my grand¬ 
mother ever became fond of eels, which she could not 
endure, then I must be all at once wiser than you, and 
find in my brain what you have not found in your books: 
namely, the secret of doing justice with my power, and 
giving happiness with my wealth. Does that amaze 
you ? Nevertheless, my Parisian, I declare to you that I 
know less of political economy than you, and understand 
neither the a nor b of it. But what of that, since I have 
will and faith ? Read the Gospel, sir. My opinion is 
that you, who talk so well about it, have forgotten that 
the first apostles were men of nothing, knowing nothing, 
like me. The good God breathed upon them, and they 
knew more than all the school-masters and curates of 
their time.” 

44 O people ! thou prophesyest! ” cried Lemor, strain¬ 
ing the miller to his heart. 44 It is indeed for thee that 


*54 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


God will perform miracles ; the Holy Ghost will breathe 
upon thee ! Thou knowest not discouragement; thou 
doubtest of nothing. Thou feelest that the heart is 
stronger than science; thou feelest thy force, thy love, 
and thou art sure of inspiration ! This is the reason that 
I burned my books—this is why I wished to return to 
the ranks of the people, from which my parents forced 
me. This is why I go among the poor and simple in 
heart, to seek that faith and zeal which I have lost in 
growing great among the rich ! ” 

“ I see! ” said the miller. “ You are a sick man 
searching for health.” 

“ Ah, I should find it if I lived near you ! ” 

“ I would give it you with all my heart, if you would 
promise not to give me your disease. And to begin, 
speak to me reasonably: tell me that whatever be Mme. 
Marcelle’s position, you will marry her if she consent.” 

“You recall my anguish. You told me that she had 
nothing ; you have seemed to bethink yourself since, and 
give me to understand that she is still rich.” 

“ Come, then, here is the truth — it was a trial of you. 
The three hundred thousand francs still remain, and let 
Father Bricolin do his best, I will advise her so well that 
she shall keep them. With three hundred thousand francs, 
comrade, I hope you may do some good, since I propose 
to save the world with fifty thousand that I have not! ” 
“I admire and envy your gayety,” said Lemor, over¬ 
powered ; “ but you plunge the dagger again to my heart. 
I adore this woman, this angel, and I cannot be the hus¬ 
band of a rich wife! Upon the subject of honor the 
world has prejudices which I have entertained in spite of 
myself, and cannot shake off. I could not look upon her 
fortune as mine; she owes it to her son, and will doubt¬ 
less preserve it for him. Thus I could not think of mak¬ 
ing myself useful by my riches, without failing in what 
is considered probity. And then I should have certain 
scruples about condemning to indigence a woman for 
whom I feel an infinite tenderness, and a child whose 
future independence I respect. I should suffer in. their 
privations, and shudder every hour lest they should sue 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


*55 

<;umb before too hard a life. Alas ! this child and this 
woman do not belong to the same race that we do, Grand- 
Louis. They are the dethroned masters of the world, 
who would demand from their former slaves the luxuries 
and attentions to which they are accustomed. We should 
see them faint and fail beneath our thatched roofs. 3?heir 
feeble hands would be bruised by labor, and it may be 
that our love could not sustain them to the end of a strug¬ 
gle which is already crushing ourselves —■” 

“ Here is your malady coming on again, and faith de¬ 
serting you,” interrupted Grand-Louis. “ You lose be¬ 
lief even in love ; you do not see that she would bear all 
for you, and be happy in so doing? You are not worthy 
to be so greatly loved, that is a fact! ” 

“ Ah, my friend, let her become poor, absolutely poor, 
if only I have nothing to do with making her so, and you 
shall see if I lack courage to sustain her ! ” 

“ Well! then you will labor to earn a little money, as 
we all do. Why so despise the money that she has, 
which is earned already ? ” 

It was not earned by the labor of the poor. It is 
stolen money.” 

“ How so?” 

“ It is the heritage of the feudal rapine of her ances¬ 
tors. Their castles were strengthened, and their lands 
fattened, by the blood and the sweat of the people.” 

“True enough, that! but money does not keep that sort 
of rust. It has the gift of being pure or unclean, accord¬ 
ing to the hand that holds it.” 

“No!” said Lemor, with fire. “Some money is 
soiled, and it soils the hand that receives it.” 

“ That is a metaphor ! ” said the miller, quietly. “ It 
is all the while the money of the poor, since it has been 
extorted from them by pillage, violence, and tyranny. 
Must the poor abstain from taking it again because rob¬ 
bers have long handled it ? Come, let us go to bed, my 
dear fellow, you are unreasonable; you shall not go to 
Blanchemont. I am less than ever for having you go, 
since you have nothing but nonsense to say to my dear 
lady; but, by my faith! you shall not leave me till you 


156 the miller of angibault. 

renounce your — what is the word now?—your utopics. 
Shall it be so?” 

“ Perhaps,” said Lemor, sad and thoughtful, and drawn 
by his love to submit to the ascendancy of his new 
friend. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


l 57 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A PORTRAIT. 

VX7E do not know whether a minute description of the 
* * features and costume of the characters in a novel 
is in strict conformity to the rules of art. Perhaps the 
story-tellers of our time (and we among the first) have 
somewhat abused the fashion of portraits in their narra¬ 
tives. Nevertheless, it is an old custom, and while we 
hope that future masters, in condemning our details, will 
sketch their own figures in broader and clearer outlines, 
we do not feel our hand strong enough to quit the beaten 
route, and we will now repair our previous forgetfulness 
by drawing the portrait of one of our heroines. 

Would it not, indeed, seem that something essential was 
wanting to the interest of a love story, however veracious, 
if one was ignorant whether the heroine were gifted with 
a more or less remarkable beauty ? It is not even enough 
to say, “ She is beautiful.” However little we may have 
been struck by her adventures, or the peculiarity of her 
situation, we want to know whether she is dark or fair, 
tall or short, languid or animated, elegant or simple in 
her appearance ; if we heard that she were passing in the 
street, we should run to the windows to see her, and ac¬ 
cording to the impression made upon us by her coun¬ 
tenance, we should be disposed to love her, or forgive her 
for having drawn public attention upon herself. 

Such was doubtless Rose Bricolin’s opinion. It was 
the morning of the first night that she had shared her 
chamber with Madame de Blanchemont, and still indo¬ 
lently recumbent on her pillow, while the more active 
and matinal young widow was already completing her 
toilet, Rose examined her attentively, and asked herself 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL 7. 


I 5 8 

whether this Parisian beauty would eclipse her own at the 
village fete which was to take place the next day. 

Marcelle de Blanchemont was less in height than she 
appeared, thanks to the elegance of her proportions and 
the dignity of all her attitudes. We must confess that 
she was a blonde, but not an insipid blonde, neither was 
she of that ashen fairness so much over-praised, which 
almost always deprives the face of vitality, because it usu¬ 
ally betokens a powerless organization. She was a 
warm, living, golden blonde, and her hair was one of her 
chief beauties. In her childhood she had been wonder¬ 
fully beautiful, and at the convent they called her the 
cherub ; at eighteen she was only a very pleasing person, 
but at twenty-two she was such that she had uncon¬ 
sciously inspired love in more than one. Yet her fea¬ 
tures were not remarkably perfect, and their freshness 
was often lessened by a slightly feverish animation. The 
activity of an ardent spirit was shown by the dark shade 
around her brilliant blue eyes. Her varying color, her 
clear and open look, and the light down at the corners of 
her mouth, were so many certain indications of an ener¬ 
getic will and a devoted, disinterested, courageous char¬ 
acter. At first sight she pleased without dazzling ; after¬ 
wards she dazzled more and more, without ceasing to 
please ; and they who scarcely thought her pretty at the 
first meeting, were soon unable to disengage their eyes or 
thoughts from her. 

Love had wrought a second transformation in her. 
Busy and cheerful at the convent, she was never pensive 
or melancholy before she met Lemor ; and even since she 
loved him, she was still prompt and decided even in the 
smallest things. But a deep attachment, by directing all 
the strength of her will towards one single aim, had given 
a firmer cast to her features, and a new and mysterious 
charm to all her manners. No one knew that she loved ; 
every one felt that she was capable of passionate affec¬ 
tion, and no man approached her without desiring to in¬ 
spire her either with love or friendship. There had been 
a time when women, jealous of her on account of this 
powerful attraction, had accused her of coquetry, but 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


l 59 


never was reproach less deserved. Marcelle had no time 
to lose in so childish and indelicate an amusement. She 
never even thought of it; and when she suddenly retired 
from society, she had not to reproach herself with having 
wilfully marked her passage through it with scars. 

Rose Bricolin, undeniably more beautiful, but whose 
childlike emotions were less mysterious to trace and di¬ 
vine, had heard the young baroness of Blanchemont men¬ 
tioned as one of the beauties of the Parisian world, and 
she could not easily comprehend how this delicate blonde, 
so simply dressed, aud with such natural manners, could 
have acquired such a reputation. Rose did not know 
that in highly civilized, and consequently highly blase 
society, animation from within lends a magic charm to a 
woman’s exterior, which always effaces the classic maj¬ 
esty of colder beauty. Still Rose felt that she already 
loved Marcelle fondly ; she could not yet account to her¬ 
self for the attraction exerted by her bright, frank look, 
the winning tones of her voice, her quick and kindly 
smile, and the decided and generous tone of her whole 
being. “ She is not as handsome as I thought!” mused 
she; kt how is it, then, that I wish to be like her?” 
Rose, in fact, caught herself dressing her hair as she did, 
involuntarily imitating her walk, her quick and graceful 
way of turning her head, and even the inflexions of her 
voice. She succeeded so well as to lose in a few days 
some of her remaining rustic awkwardness, which, how¬ 
ever, had not been without its charm ; but it may be 
truly said that this new vivacity was rather inspired than 
borrowed, and that she had soon made it so entirely her 
own as much to enhance her natural gifts. Neither was 
Rose destitute of courage and frankness ; Marcelle was 
rather destined to develop her true character, which had 
been stifled by outward circumstances, than to suggest to 
her a new one purely imitative and factitious. 


IDO 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


CHAPTER XX. 

LOVE AND MONEY. 

\\7’HILE moving about the chamber, Marcelle heard 
* * a strange voice in the next room, deep, and yet 
shrill as an old woman’s. It seemed to be strained from 
cavernous lungs, which could neither release nor contain 
it, and frequently repeated : 

“ For they took all from me — everything, even my 
clothes! ” 

And a firmer voice, recognizable for that of the grand¬ 
mother, replied: 

“ Be quiet now, my master.* I was not talking to you 
of that.” 

Seeing her companion’s astonishment, Rose undertook 
to explain this dialogue to her. “ There has always been 
misfortune in our house,” said she, “ and even before my 
poor sister or I were born, there was ill-luck in the family. 
You saw my grandfather, who looks so very old? It is 
he whom you heard just now. He seldom speaks, but he 
is so deaf, that when he does, you can hear him all over 
the house. He almost always repeats nearly the same 
thing, i They have taken all from me, pillaged all, stolen 
all! ’ He never goes beyond that, and if my grand¬ 
mother, who has great control over him, had not made 
him keep still, he would have said it as a greeting to you 
yesterday.” 

“And what does it mean?” asked Marcelle. 

“ Can it be that you have not heard of that story?” 
said Rose. “ It made enough noise, nevertheless ; but it 

* In speaking of their husbands, aged women in the country 
still follow the old custom of saying my master. In our gen¬ 
eration they say my man. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


161 


is true that you have never been in this part of the coun¬ 
try, and that you have never minded what might be going 
on here. I will warrant that you do not know that for 
more than fifty years the Bricolins have been the farmers 
of Blancheinont ? ” 

“ I knew that, and even that your grandfather, before 
settling here, held a considerable farm at Blanc, belong¬ 
ing to my grandfather. ,, 

“Ah, well! if so, you have heard of the story of the 
chauffeurs f ” 

“Yes, but longer ago than I can remember, for it was 
an old story when I was but a child.” 

“ It happened more than forty years ago, as far as I 
know myself, for we do not willingly talk of it here. It 
is too shocking and too fearful. My lord, your grand¬ 
father, at the time of the troubles, intrusted to my grand¬ 
papa Bricolin the sum of fifty thousand francs in gold, 
desiring him to hide it in some of the old castle walls, 
while he lay concealed in Paris, where he escaped being 
denounced. You know that better than I. Now, then, 
my grandpapa had this gold secreted with his own in the 
old castle of Beaufort, where he was farmer, twenty 
leagues from here. I have never been there. Your 
grandfather was in no haste to reclaim his deposit from 
him, and unfortunately, in writing him a letter to that 
effect, took a scoundrel of a notary into his confidence. 
The night following the chauffeurs came, and subjected 
my poor grandfather to a thousand tortures, till he told 
where the money was hidden. They carried off all, both 
his and yours, and even my grandmother’s house-linen 
and wedding jewels. My father, who was then a child, 
was bound and thrown on a bed. He saw it all, and 
nearly died with fright. My grandmother was shut up 
in the cellar. The working-men also were beaten and 
tied, and pistols were held to their throats to hinder them 
from crying out. At last, when the robbers had laid 
hands on all that they could carry away, they withdrew 
without any great mystery, and remained unpunished, 
nobody knows why. And from that trouble my poor 
grandpapa, who was then young, became suddenly old* 


162 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


lie has never recovered his mind, his brain is weakened, 
he has lost the memory of almost everything, save this 
dreadful business, and he never opens his mouth without 
alluding to it. Always, since that night, he has trembled 
as you see; and his legs, which were withered by the 
fire, have continued so slender and weak that he has never 
been able to work since. Your grandfather, who was a 
worthy lord, by what is said of him, never reclaimed his 
money, and even granted all the rents which he had not 
taken up for five years to my grandmother, who then, by 
her courage and clear head, had become the man of the 
family. This restored our affairs ; and when my father 
was old enough to take the farm of Blauchemont, he had 
already some credit. This is our history ; joined to that 
of my poor sister, you see that it is riot very cheerful.” 

Marcelle was much impressed by this recital, and the 
Bricolin home appeared still more gloomy to her than the 
day before. These people, in the midst of their prosper¬ 
ity, seemed doomed to something tragic and disastrous. 
Between the maniac and the idiot, Mme. de Blanche- 
mont felt struck with instinctive terror and deep melan¬ 
choly. She was amazed that the careless and luxuriant 
beauty of Rose could have been developed in such an at¬ 
mosphere of catastrophes and violent contests, in which 
money had borne so fatal a part. 

Seven rang from the cuckoo-clock, affectionately pre¬ 
served by Mother Bricolin in her chamber, which was 
lumbered up with all the old rustic furniture cast aside in 
the rearrangement of the new chateau, and was contisr- 

o ^ > O 

uous to that occupied by Rose and Marcelle, when the 
small Fanchon came joyfully to announce that her mas¬ 
ter had just come. 

u She means Grand-Louis,” said Rose. “ But why 
must she needs proclaim it as great news to us?” 

And notwithstanding her little scornful tone, Rose be¬ 
came crimson as the fullest blown of the flowers whose 
name she proudly bore. 

“ But he is full of business, and asked to speak with 
you,” said Fanchon, disconcerted. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


l6 3 


“ With me? : ’ said Rose, shrugging her shoulders, but 
blushing more and more. 

“No, with Madame Marcelle,” said the girl. 

Marcello went toward the door which Fanchon was 
holding wide open as possible, but was obliged to draw 
back for the entrance of a farm-boy carrying a trunk, 
and of Grand-Louis, himself carrying one still heavier, 
which he placed on the floor with much ease. 

“ All your errands are done,” said he, layiug also a 
bag of money on the bureau. 

Then, without waiting for Marcelle’s thanks, he cast 
his eyes upon Edward, who, beautiful as an angel, lay 
asleep in the bed his mother had left. Drawn by his 
love for children, and especially for this one, who was ir¬ 
resistibly charming, Grand-Louis approached the bed to 
see him nearer, and Edward, opening his eyes, stretched 
out his arms to him, calling him by the uam.e of alochon , 
which he persisted in giving him. 

“ See how well he looks already, since lie has come to 
our country! ” said the miller, taking one of the little 
hands to kiss. But there was a sudden movement of the 
curtains behind him, and turning, Grand-Louis saw the 
pretty arm of Rose, who, thoroughly vexed and ashamed 
at this invasion of her apartment, closed her embroidered 
hangings with a loud noise. Grand-Louis, who did not 
know that Rose had shared her chamber with Marcelle, 
and did not expect to find her there, stood confounded, 
repentant, ashamed, and yet unable to take his eyes from 
the white hand so awkwardly holding the curtain fringes. 

Marcelle then perceived the impropriety that she had 
permitted, and reproached herself with the aristocratic 
habits by which she had unconsciously been governed at 
the moment. Accustomed to consider a porter as in no 
respect a man, she had not thought of protecting Rose’s 
apartment against the miller, and the boy who brought 
her baggage. Ashamed and repentant in her turn, she 
was about to tell Grand-Louis, who seemed petrified 
in his place, to withdraw with all speed, when Mine. 
Bricolin appeared bristling at the chamber door, and stood 
mute with horror at seeing the miller, her mortal foe, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


164 

standing, distressed, between the two beds of the young 
ladies. 

She said not a word, and went out hastily, like one 
who finds a thief in the house, and runs to call the po¬ 
lice. She ran, in fact, to find M. Bricolin, who was in 
the kitchen taking his third morning draught, each being 
a pint of white wine. 

“ M. Bricolin ! ” said she, in a choked voice, “ come 
quick ! quick ! dost thou hear ? ” 

“ What is to pay now? ” said the farmer, not liking to 
be disturbed in what he called his refreshment . “ Is the 

house on fire ? ” 

“ Come, I tell thee, and see what is going on! ” an¬ 
swered his wife, almost speechless with anger. 

“ Ah! faith! if there is anything to fret about,” 
said Bricolin, accustomed to his moiety’s temper, “ thou 
canst manage it very well without me. I am easy about 
it.” 

Seeing that he did not stir, Mme. Bricolin came up to 
him, and swallowing with an effort, for she was actually 
strangling with rage : 

“Wilt thou stir?” said she, at last, but cautiously, 
that she might not be heard by the servants; “I tell 
thee that thy clod-hopper of a miller is in Rose’s cham¬ 
ber, while Rose is still in bed.” 

“Ah! so, that is improper, very improper,” said M. 
Bricolin, rising, “ and I will give him a piece of my 
mind. But no noise, wife, dost thou hear? on account 
of the child ! ” 

“Go along, and make no noise thyself! Ah! I hope 
thou wilt believe me now, and wilt treat him like an un¬ 
mannerly, impudent fellow as he is ! ” 

Just as M. Bricolin was leaving the kitchen, he came 
full upon Grand-Louis. 

“ By my faith, M. Bricolin,” said he, with an irre¬ 
sistibly candid manner, “ you see a man shocked at the 
stupidity he has just been guilty of.” 

And he simply related the facts. 

“Thou seest that he did not do it on purpose?” said 
M. Bricolin, turning to his wife. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


l6 5 

“And is that the way thou takest thiugs?” cried 
the dame, giving free course to her fury. Then rushing to 
both the doors, and slamming them, she came back be¬ 
tween the miller and M. Bricolin, who was already offering 
some refreshment to the culprit. “No, M. Bricolin,” 
screamed she, “ T cannot comprehend thy imbecility! 
Thou dost not see that this good-for-nothing fellow treats 
our daughter in a way not suitable for people like him, 
and which we cannot longer endure? Then I must let 
him know myself, and tell him — ” 

“ Tell nothing yet, Mine. Bricolin,” said the farmer, 
raising his voice in his turn, “ and give me a little 
chance at my business as head of the family. Ah! to 
hear thee, I know I might fasten my breeches with pins, 
and thou shouldst put suspenders to thy petticoat! 
Come, come, don’t make a din in my ears so early. I 
know what I have to say to this boy, and I wish nobody 
else to meddle with it. Come, wife, tell Chounette to 
bring us a fresh stoup of wine, and go tend thy 
chickens.” 

Mme. Bricolin would have answered. Her husband 
took a great crab-tree stick which always stood by his 
chair while he drank, and began to beat time on the 
table with all his might, and the tremendous din so com¬ 
pletely drowned her voice, that she was forced to retreat, 
which she did, banging the door after her. 

“ What would you be pleased to want, master?” said 
Chounette, running in at the noise. 

M. Bricolin took the empty flagon and handed it ma¬ 
jestically to her, rolling his eyes the while in a terrific 
manner. The fat Chounette became lighter than a bird 
to execute the orders of the potentate of Blauchemont. 

“ My poor Grand-Louis,” said the great man when 
they were alone, with the wine sloup between their 
glasses, “thou must know that my wife is angered with 
thee ; she bears thee a mortal grudge, and, but for me, 
she would have turned thee out of the house. But we 
are old friends, we need one another, and we will not 
quarrel. Thou wilt tell me the truth. I am sure that 
my wife is mistaken. But what wouldst thou have? all 


TIIE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


166 

women are fools or mad. Let us see, now, canst thou 
lay thy hand on thy heart and answer me?” 

“Speak ! speak ! ” said Grand-Louis in a tone which 
sounded like reckless promise, and making a strong effort 
to compose his face to an air of ease and indifference, 
very remote from his real feelings at the moment. 

“Well, then! I will not beat about the bush,” said 
the farmer. “ Art thou or art thou not in love with 
my daughter ? ” 

“ What an odd question ! ” answered the miller, brazen¬ 
ing it out. “ What would you have me answer? If I 
say yes, it looks like defying you ; if I say no, it looks 
like rudeness to Mile. Rose, for indeed she deserves that 
I should be in love with her, as you deserve that I should 
pay you respect.” 

“Thou art merry! that is a good sign. I see that 
thou art not in love.” 

“ Stay, stay ! ” returned Grand-Louis. “ I did not say 
that. I say, on the contrary, that every one is of neces¬ 
sity in love with her, because she is beautiful as the 
morning ; because she is your image ; because, in short, 
all who look upon her, old or young, rich or poor, feel 
something for her, without well knowing whether it be 
the pleasure of loving her or the mortification of not 
being able to feel free to do so.” 

“ He has wit enough for thirty thousand! ” said the 
farmer, falling back in his chair with a laugh which 
nearly broke his well-filled waistcoat. “ Thunder crush 
me if I do not wish thou wert worth one hundred thou¬ 
sand crowns ! I would give thee my daughter in prefer¬ 
ence to any other ! ” 

“I believe so ! but as I have them not, you would not 
think of giving her to me, w r ould you?” 

“No, thunder smash me! but after all, I am sorry for 
it, and that shows thee my friendship.” 

“ Many thauks —you are too kind ! ” 

“Ah! thou seest my jade of a wife has taken it into 
her head that thou talkest of it to Rose ! ” 

“ Me ! ” said the miller, and this time with the accent 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 16 7 

of truth, “I have never said a word to her that you 
might not have heard.” 

u I am sure of it. Thou hast too much sense not to 
see that thou canst not think of my daughter, and that I 
cannot give her to a man like thee. Not that 1 despise 
thee, fie ! I am not proud, and I know that all men are 
equal in the sight of the law. I have not forgotten that 
I come from a peasant family, and that when my father 
began his fortune, which he so unhappily lost, as thou 
knowest, he was no greater a gentleman than thou, for 
he, too, was a miller ! but in these days of ours , old fellow, 
money does everything, as they say, and since I have 
some, and thou none, we cannot deal together.” 

u That is conclusive and peremptory,” said the miller, 
with bitter gayety. “It is just, reasonable, veritable, 
equitable, and salutary, as the curate says in his preface.” 

“ The deuce ! hear now, Grand-Louis, everybody does 
just so. Thou who art rich for a peasant, thou wouldst 
not marry little Fauchon, the maid, if she were to take a 
fancy to thee ? ” 

“No ; but if I took a fancy to her, it would make a 
difference.” 

“Dost thou mean by that, thou great rogue, that my 
daughter might have one for thee?” 

“When did I say such a thing?” 

“ I do not say thou didst, though my wife insists that 
thou art capable of speaking too freely if thou art per¬ 
mitted such familiarity at our house.” 

“ Come now, M. Bricolin,” said Grand-Louis, begin¬ 
ning to lose patience, and finding his actual sentence cruel 
enough without the addition of insult, “ are you saying 
all this to me for the last five minutes in fun, for a 
joke, or are you talking seriously ? I have not asked 
you for your daughter, and I do not see why you should 
take the pains to refuse her to me. I am not the man to 
speak of her without respect, and I do not see why you 
should report to me Mme. Bricolin’s disagreeable sayings 
about me. If you mean to tell me to go, I am all ready. 
If it is to withdraw your custom, I have no objection, I 
have enough more. But speak out, and let us act like 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL T. 


l6S 

honest people, for I confess to you that all this looks to 
me like seeking an ugly quarrel with me, as if some peo¬ 
ple here wanted to put me in the wrong to cover their 
own fault.” 

So speaking, Grand-Louis rose, and made as if he 
would depart. It was neither M. Bricolin’s desire nor 
interest to quarrel with him. 

“What art thou talking about, great simpleton?” 
replied he in a friendly tone, forcing him to reseat him¬ 
self. “Art thou mad? What fly hath stung thee? 
Was I speaking seriously? Or do I mind my wife’s non¬ 
sense? Asa general rule, a wasp buzzing in your ear, 
and a teasing, contradictious woman, are about the same 
thing. Let us finish our flagon, and remain friends, 
credit me, Grand-Louis. My custom is a good one, aud 
I congratulate myself on having given it to thee. There 
are many little services we can mutually render one an¬ 
other, and it would be very stupid to quarrel for nothing. 
I know that thou art a bright, sensible lad, and canst not 
talk foolishly to my daughter. Besides, I think too well 
of her not to suppose that she would know howto answer 
thee if thou wert to fail in respect. So — ” 

“ So, so ! ” said Grand-Louis, striking his glass on the 
table with an emphatic impulse of anger, “ the long and 
short of it is, that all your reasons are needless, M. 
Bricolin, and grow tiresome to me. The devil take your 
custom, your little services, and my interests, if I must 
hear it even supposed that I could be wanting in respect 
to your daughter, and that some day or other she should 
have to remind me of my place. I am only a peasant, 
but I am as proud as you, M. Bricolin, with your good 
leave ; and if you can find no more delicate mode of ex¬ 
pressing yourself toward me, let me bid you good-day 
and go about my business.” 

M. Bricolin had much trouble in calming Grand-Louis, 
who was deeply irritated, not at the suspicions of the 
farmer’s wife, which he knew were in a certain degree 
merited, nor at Bricolin’s coarse manner, to which he 
was well accustomed, but at the cruelty with which the 
latter unconsciously tore open his heart’s bleeding wounds. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


169 

lie was at length appeased by an amende honorable from 
the farmer, who had his reasons for showing himself 
very peaceable, and for not attending to his wife’s fears, 
at least for the moment. 

“ So, then !” said he, inviting him to begin upon a new 
flagon of Ills white wine, after the cheese, “thou art great 
friends with our young lady ? ” 

“Great friends! ” replied the miller with some remain¬ 
ing vexation, and declining to drink, notwithstanding the 
urgency of his host; “ that is as reasonable as the love 
of which you forbid me to speak to your daughter! ” 

“ Faith! if the phrase is unsuitable, it is none of my 
invention ; she herself said several times yesterday (which 
made Thibaude furious !), that she had a great friendship 
for thee. Lord! Grand-Louis, everybody knows thou 
art a handsome fellow, and they say that great ladies — 
What! art thou going to storm again ? ” 

“ My opinion is that you have a stoup too much in your 
head this morning, M. Bricolin ! ” said the miller, pale 
with indignation. 

Never had he been so much disgusted with Bricolin’s 
hard vulgarity, which heretofore he had taken as a mat¬ 
ter of course. 

“ And I believe,” returned the former, “ that thou hast 
turned thy mill race into thy stomach this morning, for 
thou art as dull and captious as a water-drinker. Is there 
no fun to be had with thee just now? That is something 
new. Well then, let us talk seriously, if thou wilt. It is 
certain that, in one way or another, thou hast acquired the 
esteem and confidence of the lady, and that she commissions 
thee with her errands without speaking of it to anybody.” 

“ I do not know what you mean.” 

“ Why, thou goest to * * * for her, thou bringest her 
her baggage and her money! — for Chounette saw thee 
give her a large bag of money! In short, thou seest to 
her affairs.” 

“ As you will. I know that I attend to mine, and that, 
on the same occasion, I brought her trunks and purse 
from the inn where she left them ; if that is to see to her 
affairs, well and good. I am content — ” 


170 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“Then what was in the bag? Gold*or silver?” 

“ How should I know ! I did not look in it.” 

“ It would have cost thee nothing, and done her no 
harm.” 

“You ought to have told me that you were interested 
in it; I did not guess it! ” 

“ Listen, Grand-Louis, my lad ! Be frank ! This lady 
lias talked with thee about her business ? ” 

“Where do you learn that?” 

“ I learn it there ! ” said the farmer, pointing with his 
forefinger to his narrow and sunburned forehead. “ I 
smell an odor of secrecies and concealments in the air. 
The lady seems to distrust me and consult thee! ” 

“ And if she did ? ” replied Grand-Louis, looking fix¬ 
edly at Bricolin, with some intentiou of braving him. 

“ If it w T ere so, Grand-Louis, I do not think thou 
wouldst be unfavorable to me ? ” 

“ How do you understand that? ” 

“ As thou very well understandest it thyself. I have 
always placed confidence in thee, and thou wouldst not 
abuse it. Thou kuowest that I have a desire for the es¬ 
tate, and that I do not wish to pay too dear for it ? ” 

“I know that you do not wish to pay her price.” 

“ Her price ! her price ! that depends on the position 
«f the parties. What would be ill sold for another, will 
he happily sold for her , for she had best get quickly out 
of the trough in which her husband has left her.” 

“I know that, Monsieur Bricolin, I have your notions 
about it, and your ambition, all at my fingers’ ends. You 
wish to beat down the dame vender esse, as the lawyers 
would say, by fifty thousand francs.” 

“No, not beat her down at all! I have been fair and 
above board with her. • I told her what her property was 
worth. Only, I told her that I would not pay all its 
value, and ten thousand million thunders crush me if I 
will, or can offer a farthing more.” 

“You spoke differently to me, not so very long ago ! 
You told me that you could pay her price, and that if it 
were absolutely necessary to go beyond — ” 

“ Thou ravest! I never said so ! ” 


TIIE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


I 7 I 

u Pardon me ! just remember ! It was at the Cluis 
Fair, by token that M. Gronard, the mayor, was there/* 

“ He cannot testify, he is dead! ” 

“But I, I could swear to it! ” 

“Thou wilt not do it?” 

“ That depends.” 

“ On what?” 

“ On you.” 

“How so?” 

“ The treatment that I receive in your house will reg¬ 
ulate my conduct, M. Bricolin. I am tired of your 
dame’s rudeness, and of the affronts she puts upon me. 
I know that more are in reserve, that your daughter is 
forbidden to speak to me, to dance with me, to come to 
my mill to see her nurse, and I have all sorts of vexations 
of which I would not complain if I had deserved them, 
but which are insulting, as I have not.” 

“ How, is that all, Grand-Louis? and a pretty present, 
a note of five hundred francs, for instance, would not be 
more agreeable to thee ? ” 

“No, sir ! ” dryly answered the miller. 

“ Thou art a simpleton, my lad ; five hundred francs 
in an honest man’s pocket is worth more than a bourree 
in the dust. Thou makest a point, then, of dancing with 
my daughter ? ” 

“ It concerns my honor, M. Bricolin. I have always 
danced the bourree with her before everybody. No one 
thought it amiss, and if I should now receive the affront 
of a refusal from her, everybody would think your wife’s 
stories about my rudeness and ill manners true. I will 
not be so treated. It is for you to decide whether you 
choose to provoke me or no.” 

“ Dance with Bose, my boy, dance away !” cried the 
farmer with joy, mingled with deep roguery ; “dance as 
much as thou wilt! if it needs but that to please thee ! ” 

“ Well, we shall see,” thought the miller, satisfied with 
his revenge. “The lady of Blanchemont is coming this 
way,” said he. “ Your wife, with her uproar, gave me 
no time to render account of my errands to her. If she 
speaks to me of her affairs. 1 will tell you her intentions.” 


172 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


U I leave tliee with her,” said M. Bricolin, rising. 
u Do not forget that thou canst influence her intentions ! 
Business annoys her, and she is in haste to conclude it. 
Make her understand that I am immovable — I will go to 
Thibaude, and lesson her in what concerns thee.” 

u Double rascal! ” said Grand-Louis to himself, as the 
farmer heavily hastened away. u Reckoning on me for 
an accomplice ! Oh ho ! just for having thought me cap¬ 
able of it, I hope it may cost thee fifty thousand francs 
and twenty thousand to boot! ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


x 73 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE MILL-BOY. 

lV/TY dear lady,” said the miller hastily, as he heard 
Rose following Marcelle, “ I have a hundred things 
to say to you, but I cannot say them all in a minute! 
Here, besides (I do not speak of Mile. Rose), the walls 
have very long ears, and if I go to walk alone with you, 
that will raise suspicion upon certain affairs — In short, I 
must speak with you ; how can it be done?” 

“ There is a very simple way,” answered Mine, de 
Blanchemont. “ I will go to walk to-day, and I can 
easily find the way to Angibault.” 

“ Besides, if Mademoiselle Rose would show it to you,” 
said Grand-Louis, at the moment that Rose entered, and 
heard Marcelle’s last words — “If so be,” he added, 
“ that she is not too angry with me — ” 

“Oh! you great blunderer! you have earned me a fine 
scolding from my mother! ” replied Rose. “ She has 
said nothing to me yet, but with her what is delayed is 
not lost.” 

“ No, Mademoiselle Rose; no, fear nothing. Your 
mamma will not say a word this time, thank heaven ! I 
have justified myself; your papa has forgiven me, and un¬ 
dertaken to pacify Mme. Bricolin ; and provided that you 
bear me no grudge for my stupidity — ” 

“Do not let us speak of that,” said Rose, blushing 
“ I am not angry with you, Grand-Louis. Only you need 
not have shouted your explanation so loud as you went 
out. You waked me in a f right .” 

“ You were asleep, then? I did not think so.” 

“ Come, you were not asleep, little cheat,” said Mar¬ 
celle, “ for you drew your curtains furiously.” 


*74 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“ I was half asleep,” said Rose, trying to hide her em¬ 
barrassment under an air of vexation. 

“ The plainest thing about it,” said the miller, with 
honest distress, “ is, that she is angry with me.” 

“ No, Louis, I pardon thee, since thou didst not know 
I was there,” said Rose, who had been too long in the 
habit of saying thee and thou to Grand-Louis, her old 
playmate, not to relapse into it, either through forgetful¬ 
ness or of purpose. She well kuew that a single word 
from her lips, accompanied by this delicious thou , would 
change all the melancholy of her lover into overflowing 

joy- 

“ And yet,” said the miller, whose eyes shone with 
pleasure, “you will not come to the mill to-day with 
Mme. Marcelle ? ” 

“ How can I, Grand-Louis, when mamma has forbidden 
me — I know not why ? ” 

“ Your papa will permit you. I complained to him of 
Mme. Bricolin’s harshness ; he disapproves it, and has 
promised me to remove the prejudices she has against me 
— I do not know why, either.” 

“Ah! so much the better, if that is the case,” cried 
Rose, openly; “ we will go on horseback, will we not, 
Madame Marcelle? You shall ride my little mare, and 
I will take papa’s nag; he is very gentle, and goes very 
quick, too.” 

“ And me,” said Edward ; “I want to ride on a horse 
too.” 

“ That is more difficult,” replied Marcelle. “ I should 
not dare to take thee behind me, my darling.” 

“ Nor I neither,” said Rose ; “ our horses are rather 
too lively.” 

“ Oh ! I want to go to Angibault too ! ” cried the child. 
“ Mamma, take me to the mill! ” 

“It is too far for your little legs,” said the miller; 
“ but I will take charge of you, if your mamma is will¬ 
ing. We will go first in my cart, and we will go and see 
the cows milked, so that these ladies may find cream when 
they come.” 

“You may safely trust him with him,” said Rose to 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


l 75 

Marcelle. 44 He is so good with children! I know 
something of that myself.” 

“ Oh, you! you were so pretty! ” said the miller, quite 
melted; 44 you should always have stayed as you were 
then.” 

44 Much obliged for the compliment, Grand-Louis! ” 

44 I do not mean that you are no longer pretty, but 
that you should never have grown up. You loved me so 
well in those days ! You could not leave me — always 
hanging round my neck ! ” 

44 That would have been a pleasant habit to preserve ! ” 
said Rose, half annoyed, half amused. 

44 Well,” resumed the miller, turning to Marcelle, 
44 then may I take the little one?” 

44 I trust him to you with entire security,” said Mme. 
de Blanchemont, giving her boy into his arms. 

4k Ah ! how good ! ” cried the child. 44 Alochon, thou 
wilt hold me up in thy arms, and let me pick the black 
plums from the trees along the road ? ” 

44 Yes, my lord,” said the miller, laughing, 44 if you will 
promise not to let them fall upon my nose.” 

Grand-Louis was approaching his mill, jogging on, and 
playing in his cart with Edward, who made his heart throb 
by recalling to him the childish charms, caresses, and freaks 
of Rose, when he spied Henri Lemor coming to meet him 
through the meadow. The latter, however, on recogniz¬ 
ing Edward beside the miller, turned instantly, and rushed 
into the house to conceal himself. 

4k Take Sophie to the field,” said Grand-Louis to his 
mill-boy, stopping at some distance from the door. 44 And 
you, mother, amuse this child for me. Keep him like the 
apple of your eye ; as for me, I have a word to say at the 
mill.” 

He then hurried to Lemor, who had shut himself up in 
his chamber, and who opened the door cautiously, saying : 
44 This child knows me. I was obliged to keep out of his 
sight.” 

44 And who the devil could have guessed you were still 
here?” said the miller, scarcely able to recover from 
his surprise. 44 1 bade you farewell this morning, and 


176 the miller of angibault. 

thought you already setting sail for Africa I What wan¬ 
dering knight, or troubled spirit, are you, then ? ” 

“ I am indeed a troubled spirit, my friend. Have com¬ 
passion on me. I went a league ; I sat down on the brink 
of a fountain ; I dreamed, I wept, and I returned. I 
cannot go! ” 

“ Come, now, that makes me love you ! ” cried the 
miller, heartily shaking his hand. “ That is the way I 
have been more than an hundred times. Yes, more than 
an hundred times I have left Blanchemont, swearing that I 
would never set foot there again, and there was always 
some fountain by the way, where I sat down to weep, and 
which had the virtue of sending me back whence I came. 
But hearken, my lad, you must be on your guard ! I am 
glad to have you stay with us as long as you cannot de¬ 
cide to be off. I foresee that it will be some time. All 
the better — I like you ; I wanted to keep you this morn¬ 
ing ; you return — I am glad of it, and thank you. But 
you must go away for a few hours. They are coming 
here.” 

“ Both ? ” cried Lemor, understanding Grand-Louis at 
half a word. 

“ Yes, both. I have not been able to say a word about 
you to Mme. de Blanchemont. She is coming to give me 
an opportunity to speak to her of her business affairs, not 
knowing that I have heart affairs, too, to speak of. I do 
not wish that she should know you are here, till I am 
quite sure she will not scold me for having brought you. 
Besides, I do not wish to surprise her, especially before 
Rose, who doubtless knows nothing of all this. So hide 
yourself. They asked for their horses as I came away. 
They will have breakfasted as fair ladies breakfast, that 
is, like linnets ; their beasts are not slow-limbed; they 
may be here at any moment.” 

“ I g &— I fly ! ” said Lemor, all pale and trembling ; 
“ah! my friend, she will be here ! ” 

“ I understand ! your heart bleeds not to see her ! It 
is hard, I confess! If one could be sure of you — if 
you could swear not to show yourself, not to stir hand or 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


I 77 


foot all the while they are here — I could secrete you in 
a place where you could see her without being observed.” 

44 Oh ! dear Grand-Louis, my excellent friend, I prom¬ 
ise ! I swear! Hide me, were it beneath your mill¬ 
stone ! ” 

44 The deuce ! that would hardly do ! Grand’-Louise’s 
bones are harder than yours. I will stow you more 
softly. You shall climb into my hay-loft, and through 
the hole in the skylight you can see the ladies pass to 
and fro. I am not sorry to have you see Rose Bricolin 
— you shall tell me if you have known many prettier 
duchesses at Paris. But stay till I go and see what is 
going on.” 

Grand-Louis went to a spot at a little distance which 
commanded a view of the towers of Blanchemont, and 
of nearly all the road leading there, and when assured 
that the two equestrians were not yet in sight, he re¬ 
turned to his prisoner. 

44 Now, comrade,” said he, 44 here is a sixpenny look¬ 
ing-glass and a real miller’s razor, and you will please 
part with that goat’s beard of yours. It is out of place 
in a mill. It is a mere flour-nest. And then, if you 
should unluckily show the end of your nose, the change 
would make it less easy to recognize you.” 

44 You are right,” replied Lemor, 44 and I hasten to 
obey.” 

44 Do you know,” resumed the miller, 44 that I have an 
idea in making you shear that black fleece ? ” 

44 What?” 

44 I have just thought of it, and this is what I have de¬ 
cided : you shall stay with me till you have determined 
to cause no more pain to my dear lady, and to change 
your foolish notions about fortune. Even if you should 
stay only a few days, no one need know who you are, 
and your beard gives you a city look, which draws atten¬ 
tion. I told my good mother at random last night that 
you were a surveyor. It was the first lie that occurred 
to me, and it was nonsense. However, she never won¬ 
ders, and will think it very natural that you should have 


12 


ij8 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


left surveying for mechanics. So you shall be a miller, 
my dear fellow; that suits you better. You will busy 
yourself, or pretend to busy yourself, with the mill. You 
certainly know something about part of it, and you will 
be considered as advising me about setting a new mill¬ 
stone. You will be a useful person whom I met in 
town. In this way, nobody will be astonished at your 
presence here. I am clerk; I answer for you ; no one 
will ask to see your passport. The garde-champetre is 
rather inquisitive and prating. But a pint or two of 
wine silences his tongue. This is my plan. You must 
conform to it, or I abandon you.’’ 

u I submit, I will be your mill-boy, I will hide my¬ 
self, provided I do not go without seeing her again, were 
it only from here and for an instant — ” 

“Hush! I hear iron on the flints —trie trie , that is 
Mile. Rose’s black mare — trac trae , that is M. Bric- 
olin’s gray nag. You have shaved enough, washed 
enough, and I assure you you look an hundred times 
better for it. Run to the loft and turn the shutter of the 
skylight upon yourself. You can look through the 
crack. If my boy comes up, make believe sleep. The 
country people often give themselves the easement of a 
siesta in the hay, and it seems to them a more Christian 
occupation than solitary reflection with arms folded and 
eyes open. Adieu ! there is Mile. Rose. See, the fore¬ 
most one! See how lightly she trots, and with such a 
decided air! ” 

“ Beautiful as an angel! ” said Lemor, who had 
looked only at Marcelle. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


1 79 


CHAPTER XXII 


BY THE WATER-SIDE. 



RAND-LOUIS, who was full of the thoughtful atten- 


tions inspired by true affection, had given orders, in 
passing, that the collation of milk and fruit should be 
served under a trellis in front of his door, just opposite 
and very near the mill, whence Lemor, crouched in his 
loft, could see and even hear Marcelle. 

The rustic repast was very merry, thanks to Edward’s 
frolicsome familiarity with the miller, and Rose’s charm¬ 
ing coquetry towards him. “Take care, Rose! ” whis¬ 
pered Mme. de Blanchemont to the young girl. “ You 
are making yourself enchanting to-day, and you must 
see that you are turning his head. It seems to me either 
that you make light of my lectures, or that you are going 
too far.” 

Rose was disturbed, remained a moment thoughtful, 
but soon renewed her lively enticements, as if internally 
resolved to accept the love she provoked. There had 
always been at the bottom of her heart a strong friend¬ 
ship for Grand-Louis, which made it very improbable 
that she would amuse herself by laughing at him, unless 
she felt the secret possibility of a great advance in this 
fraternal affection. The miller, without wishing to flat¬ 
ter himself, still felt an instinctive confidence in her, and 
his loyal soul told him that she was too good and pure 
coldly to torture him. 

Thus he was happy in seeing her so cheerful and ani¬ 
mated at his side, and it was with regret that he left her 
with his mother, the last at table. But he had seen 
Marcelle slip away and make him a private signal to fol¬ 
low her to the other side of the river. 


THE MILLER OF ANG 1 BAULT. 


I So 

“Well, dear Grand-Louis,” said Mme. de Blanche* 
rnont, “ it seems to me that you are no longer so sad as 
you were the other day, and that I have guessed the 
reason! ” 

“ Ah! Mme. Marcelle, you know all, I see plainly, 
and have nothing to learn from me. It is you, rather, 
who can tell me more than I know; for it appears to 
me that great confidence should be and is placed in you.” 

“ I will not compromise Rose,” said Mme. de Blanche- 
mont, smiling. “ Women ought not to betray one 
another. Still, I think I may hope, with you, that you 
will not find it impossible to make yourself beloved.” 

“ Ah! if I were loved, I should be satisfied, and I 
think I should ask no more; for the day that she told me 
so, I should be ready to die with joy! ” 

“ My friend, your love is noble and sincere, and for 
that reason you must not too much desire to have it re¬ 
turned before thinking how to remove the obstacles on 
the part of the family. I presume it is that of which 
you wished to talk with me, and that is why I eagerly 
accepted your invitation. Let us see — time is precious ; 
they will doubtless soon join us — How can I influence 
her father’s mind, as Rose gave me to understand that I 
might ? ” 

“Rose gave you to understand that?” cried the miller, 
with transport. “Then she thinks of it? She loves 
me ? Ah ! Mme. Marcelle! And you did not tell me 
that at once! Ah! What care I for the rest, if she 
loves me, if she desires to marry me ! ” 

“Softly, my friend. Rose has not gone so far. She 
has a sisterly affection for you, she desired the revocation 
of the sentence which prohibited her from speaking to 
you, or coming to your house, or treating you, in short, 
as a friend, as she has always done till now. This is 
why she has begged me to stand your friend with her 
parents, and to take your part, while showing some firm¬ 
ness in my dealings with them. And this beside, I have 
understood, Grand-Louis ; M. Bricolin wants my estate 
cheap, aud it might be that if Rose loved you, I could 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


1 S 1 


insure her happiness and yours by imposing your mar¬ 
riage as a condition of my consent. If you think so, do 
Dot doubt that I shall be very glad to make the slight 
sacrifice.” 

u Slight sacrifice ! You do not consider it, Mine. Mar- 
celle! you think yourself still rich; you talk of fifty 
thousand francs as of nothing. You forget that it is 
henceforth a good part of your living. And do you be¬ 
lieve I would accept such a sacrifice ? Oh ! I had rather 
renounce Rose at once. 

“You do not comprehend the true value of money, my 
friend : it is only a means of happiness ; and the happi¬ 
ness one can procure for others is the purest and most 
certain that one can procure for one’s self.” 

“ You are good as God, poor lady! but there is in 
this case a happiness still purer, and more certain than 
your own. It is that which you must provide for your 
sou. And what would you say if some day — great God ! 
— for want of the fifty thousand francs you had sacrificed 
for your friends, your dear Edward were forced in his 
turn to renounce a woman whom he loved, and whose 
hand you could not obtain for him ? ” 

“ Your arguments are good, and touch my heart; but 
on the subject of worldly interests we can make no abso¬ 
lute calculations for the future. My situation is not so 
rigidly defined as you make it; by persisting in selling at 
a high price I shall lose time, and you know each day of 
hesitation precipitates my ruin. By closing the bargain 
quickly I free myself from these gnawing debts, and cer¬ 
tainly I may some day find it clear profit to have taken 
my course without puerile regret or misplaced parsimony. 
Thus you see that I am not so very generous, and that I 
act for my own interest while serving your love.” 

“A poor head for business ! ” cried the miller, with a 
sad and tender smile. “A saint of Paradise could not 
talk better. But it is not common sense, permit me to 
say, my dear lady. You will find purchasers for your 
property within a fortnight, who will be well pleased to 
pay no more than its price for it.” 

“ But who will not be solvent, like M. Bricolin? ” 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BA UL T. 


1 S 2 

u Ah, yes ! that is his pride ! being solvent. Solvent! 
a great word! He thinks himself the only man in the 
world who can say, 4 1 am solvent! ’ That is, he knows 
very well that there are others, but he dazzles you with 
the word. Do not heed him ; he is a cunning sharper. 
Only pretend to make a bargain with another, should you 
even go so far as to make proposals and mock contracts. 
I should not be too precise, in your place. Do at Rome 
as the Romans do ; and all stratagems are fair in war! 
Will you empower me to act? I swear to you that, as 
sure as you see this water, in a fortnight M. Bricolin 
shall give you your three hundred thousand francs, fairly 
counted, and a good stoup of wine to boot.” 

“ I should never have the skill to follow your advice, 
and it seems to me much the quicker plan to make each 
of us happy in our own way—you, Rose, me, M. Bric¬ 
olin, and my son, who will some day be glad of what I 
have done.” 

“ Romance ! romance ! ” said the miller. “You do 
not know what your son will think fifteen years hence, 
about love and money. Do not commit this folly ; I will 
not lend myself to it, Mine. Marcelle — no, no, do not 
think it. I am as proud as anybody, and obstinate — as 
a sheep, and what is more, one of our Berry sheep. Be¬ 
sides, hark you ! it would be sheer loss. M. Bricolin 
would promise everything and perform nothing. Con¬ 
sidering your position, it is necessary that your contract 
of sale be signed before the end of the month, and cer¬ 
tainly I could not hope to, marry Rose within a month. 
To bring that about, she would need to be madly in love 
with me, which she is not. And then I could never 
bring myself to expose her to the tumult and scandal it 
would cause. How furious her mother would be! 
What amazement and what slander would meet her from 
her neighbors and acquaintances ! What would not be 
said ? Who would understand that you had demanded it 
of M. Bricolin through pure greatness of soul, and holy 
friendship for us? You do not know how malicious men 
are ; and as to women— if you only knew how they talk ! 
Your kindness toward me — no, you cannot imagine, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


18 * 

and I should not dare tell you how it would be inter¬ 
preted, and by M. Bricolin first of all. Or else they would 
say that Bose—sweet, innocent creature! — had com¬ 
mitted an error, and confided it to you, and that you, to 
save her honor, had undertaken to dower the culprit. In 
short, it cannot be ; and I have given you more reasons 
than I hope you need, to be convinced of it. Oh, that is 
not the way that I would obtain Rose! It must come 
naturally, and without bringing evil tongues upon her. I 
know very well that a miracle is needed to make me rich, 
or a misfortune to render her poor. God will come to my 
help, if she love me, and she may, perhaps, come to love 
me — may she not ? ” 

u But, my friend, I cannot try to warm her heart 
towards you, if you take from me the means of governing 
her mercenary father. I would not have undertaken it 
without this thought, for it would be criminal in me to 
hurry this young and lovely girl into an unhappy passion.” 

“Ah! that is true!” said Grand-Louis, suddenly 
overcome; “ and I see that I am mad—and indeed it 
was neither of myself nor of Rose that I wished to speak 
when I asked you to come here, Mme. Marcelle ; you 
deceived yourself in your excellent goodness. I meant 
to speak to you of yourself alone, when you forestalled 
me by speaking of me ; I let myself listen to you, like a 
great baby, and then must needs reply; but I return to 
my object, which is to oblige you to busy yourself with 
your affairs. I know M. Bricolin’s concerns, his inten¬ 
tions, and his eagerness to buy your estate. He will not 
let it go into other hands, but to get three hundred thou¬ 
sand francs for it, you must ask him three hundred and 
fifty thousand. Only hold out, and you will have it; 
but, at any rate, he must not pay less for the property 
than it is worth. Fear nothing, he wants it too much! ” 

“ I repeat to you, my friend, that I could not sustain 
this contest. It has lasted now but two days, and is al¬ 
ready beyond my strength.” 

“ Therefore you must have nothing to do with it. You 
can put your business into the hands of an honest and 
able notary. I know such au one. I will speak with 


184 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


him this evening, and you shall see him to-morrow, with¬ 
out any trouble. To-morrow is the festival of the patron 
saint of Blanchemont. There will be a great assembling 
on the terrace in front of the church. The notary will be 
there to walk about and talk, as is his custom, with his 
country clients; you shall go as by accident into a house 
where he will wait for you. You will sign a power of 
attorney, say two words to him, and I will say four, and 
you will only have to send M. Bricolin to battle it out 
with him. If he does not surrender, during this time 
your notary will find you another purchaser. Only a 
little prudence is needed to prevent Bricolin from sus¬ 
pecting that it is I who have recommended this man of 
business to you instead of his own, whom he has doubt¬ 
less proposed, and whom you may have had the rashness 
to accept! ” 

u No, I had promised you to do nothing without your 
advice.” 

“Thatis very fortunate ! Go, then, to-morrow at two 
o’clock, to walk on the bank of the Vauvre, as if to see 
the pretty spectacle of the fete from the foot of the ter¬ 
race. I will be there, and will show the way to a sure 
and discreet person’s house.” 

“ But, my friend, if M. Bricolin discovers that you 
guide me in this matter contrary to his interest, he will 
dismiss you from his house, and you can never see Rose 
again.” 

“ He will be very sharp if he discovers it! But if 
that misfortune should happen — I have told you, Mme. 
Marcelle, God would come to my help by a miracle, so 
much the more that I should have done my duty.” 

“ Loyal and courageous friend, I cannot be induced 
thus to expose you ! ” 

“ And do I not owe it to you, when you wished to ruiu 
yourself for me ? Come, no childishness, my dear lady, 
we are quits —” 

“ There is Rose coming toward us,” said Marcelle. 
“I have scarcely time to thank you — ” 

“ No! Mile. Rose is turning down the avenue with 
my mother, who has a hint to keep her awhile, for I have 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


^5 

not finished, Mine. Marcelle ; I have quite another thing 
to tell you! But you must be tired with walking so 
long. Since the court is free and the mill quiet, corno 
and sit on this bench by the door. Mile. Rose thinks us on 
the other side, and will not return till she has been round 
the field. What I have to say to you is more interesting 
than your business, and requires even more secrecy.” 

Astonished at this preamble, Marcelle followed the 
miller, and sat down with him on the bench, just beneath 
the door of the hay-loft, where Lemor could see and hear 
her. 

“Well, then, Mme. Marcelle,” stammered the miller, 
somewhat at a loss how to enter upon the subject, “ you 
know the letter you intrusted to me?” 

“Well, dear Grand-Louis! ” answered Mme. de 
Blanchemont, her calm and rather wearied face suddenly 
flushing ; “ did you not tell me this morning that you had 
sent it?” 

“ Pardon — I did not put it in the post.” 

“You forgot it? ” 

“ Oh, no, indeed.” 

“ Lost it, perhaps?” 

“ Still less. I did better than put it in the box, I 
gave it directly to its address.” 

“ What do you mean ? It was addressed to Paris ! ” 

“ Yes, but finding the person for whom it was destined 
upon my road, I thought I should do better to hand it to 
him.” 

“Oh, heaven! you make me tremble, Louis,” said 
Marcelle, turning pale. “ You have made some mis¬ 
take.” 

“No such fool! Perhaps I know M. Henri Lemor 
very well! ” 

“You know him? and he is in this part of the 
country ? ” said Marcelle, without endeavoring to dissem¬ 
ble her emotion. 

In a few words Grand-Louis explained the manner in 
which he had recognized Lemor for the traveller who had 
already been to his mill, and for the intended recipient of 
the letter confided to him. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


186 

“And where was lie going? and what was he doing 
at * * *?” asked Marcelle, with anxiety. 

“He was going to Africa. He was passing through,” 
replied the miller, who wished to see what she would 
say. “ It is the direct road to Toulouse. He had taken 
the breakfast hour of the diligence to go to the post.” 

“And where is he now?” 

“ I cannot easily tell you where he may be ; but he is 
no longer at * * 

“He was going to Africa, you say? And why so 
far ? ” 

“ Precisely on account of the distance. That was his 
answer to my question.” 

“ The answer is plainer than you think ! ” said Mar¬ 
celle, with increasing agitation, and not even attempting 
to render it less evident. “ My friend, you are not so 
unfortunate as you think! There are hearts more 
crushed than yours.” 

“Yours, for instance, my poor dear lady?” 

“Yes, my friend, mine.” 

“ But is it not a little your fault? Why did you com¬ 
mand this poor young man to remain a year without 
hearing of you?” 

“ How ! did he show you my letter? ” 

“ Oh, no ! he was suspicious and mysterious enough — 
go to ! But I so questioned him, and besieged him, and 
guessed so much, that he was forced to confess that I 
was not deceived. Ah, faith! do you see, Mme. Mar¬ 
celle, I am very inquisitive into the secrets of those I 
love, because, while one does not know what they think, 
one does not know how to serve them. Am I wrong?” 

“ No, friend, I am very willing that you should have 
my secrets as I have yours. But, alas! whatever be 
your good will and good heart, you can do nothing for 
me. Yet answer me. Did this young man send no an¬ 
swer, verbal or in writing?” 

“ He wrote you this morning a pile of trash, which I 
would not bring you.” 

“ You have done me an 5 ill service. So, I cannot 
know his intentions ? ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. jg^ 

“ All he could say was this — 4 1 love her, but I am 
courageous.’ ” 

“ He said 4 but?’” 

44 He may have said 4 and ! ’ ” 

44 That would be so different! Think, Grand-Louis.” 

44 He said now one, and then the other, for he repeated 
it often/’ 

44 This morning, you say? Did you leave the town 
only this morning ? ” 

44 1 meant to say last evening. It was late, and we 
here call it morning from midnight.” 

44 Heavens! what does it mean? Why no letter? 
Then you saw that he wrote one?” 

44 A little ! he tore up four! ” 

44 But what was in those letters? Was he, then, very 
irresolute ? ” 

44 First he said that he could never see you again, then 
that he would go and see you at once.” 

44 And he resisted this last temptation? He was, in¬ 
deed, courageous ! ” 

44 Ah ! listen now ! He was worse tempted than St. 
Anthony! but on the oue hand, I deterred him; on the 
other, he feared to disobey you.” 

44 And what think you of a lover who knows not how 
to disobey ? ” 

44 1 think that he loves too much, and will get small 
thanks for it.” 

44 1 am unjust, am I not, dear Grand-Louis? I am 
too much moved ; I know not what I say. But why did 
you, friend, deter him from following you? For he did 
think of it? ” 

44 1 should think he did ! He even came a part of the 
way upon my cart. But I, pardon — I was too much 
afraid of displeasing you.” 

44 You love, and you think others so severe? ” 

44 Faith ! what would you have said if I had brought 
him into the Black Valley? For instance—at this mo¬ 
ment — if I told you that I had hidden him in my mill! 
Ah ! for once, you would treat me as I deserved ! ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


188 


“ Louis! ” said Marcelle, rising with an air of high 
resolve, “ he is here. You confess it! ” 

“ Not I, madam ; it is you who make me say so.” 

“ My friend,” returned she, taking his hand cordially, 
“ tell me where he is, and I forgive you.” 

“And if it were so,” said the miller, a little fright¬ 
ened by Marcelle’s impulsiveness, but enchanted by her 
frankness, “ you would not dread gossiping tongues?” 

“ When he left me voluntarily, and my spirit was de¬ 
pressed, I could think of the world, foresee danger, cre¬ 
ate rigid and perhaps exaggerated duties for myself; 
but when he returns to me, when he is so near, what do 
you wish me to think of, and what would you have me 
fear ? ” 

“ Still it must be feared lest some imprudence on your 
part render your projects more difficult to carry into ex¬ 
ecution,” said Grand-Louis, indicating to Marcelle, by a 
gesture, the window above her head. 

Marcelle raised her eyes and met those of Lemor, who, 
quivering, and leaning towards her, was ready to shorten 
the distance by springing from the height of the roof. 

But the miller coughed with all his might, and indi¬ 
cated to the two lovers by another gesture that Bose was 
approaching, with his mother and little Edward. 

“Yes, madam,” said he, raising his voice, “a mill 
like this brings in little ; but if I could only set up a 
great millstone that I have in my mind, it would bring 
me easily — eight hundred francs a year I” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3 9 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CADOCHE. 

' I ''HE glance of the two lovers had been rapid and 
burning. A sovereign calm succeeded this excite¬ 
ment. They loved, they were sure of each other. All 
was said, explained, entreated between them in the elec¬ 
tric passage of this look. Lemor threw himself back on 
the floor of the loft, and Marcelle, mistress of herself 
through her great happiness, greeted Rose without an¬ 
noyance or regret. She allowed herself to be taken into 
the delightful neighboring coppice, and, after an hour’s 
walk, she remounted her horse with her companion, and 
took the road to Blanchemont, after saying in a low voice 
to the miller— 

“ Conceal him well, I will return.” 

“ No, no, not too soon,” Grand-Louis had replied. “ I 
will arrange an interview without danger, but let me take 
my measures. I will bring back your boy this evening, 
and will speak with you again if I can.” 

When Marcelle was gone, Lemor came out of his hid¬ 
ing-place, where he began to feel dizzy, not so much from 
the intoxicating fragrance of the hay, as from joy and 
emotion. 

u Friend,” said he gayly, to the miller, u I am your 
mill-boy, and I do not propose to live at your expense 
without working for you. Give me something to do, and 
you shall see that the Parisian’s arms are tolerably good, 
notwithstanding his slight looks.” 

“ Yes,” replied Grand-Louis, “ when the heart is sat¬ 
isfied the arms are supple enough. Your affairs are go¬ 
ing on better than mine, my lad, and when we have a 
talk this evening it will be your turn to give me courage. 


190 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


But now, you say rightly, we must be busy. 1 cannot 
spend my time in talking of love, and you might go mad 
with happiness if you were idle. Labor is wholesome 
for all; it sustains joy and diverts sorrow, which, per- 
haps, means that the good God made it for us all. Come, 
you shall help me raise my gate and set Grand’-Louise 
dancing. Her song has a virtue to restore my spirits 
when I am out of order.” 

“Ah! heavens! this child will recognize me ! ” said 
Lemor, perceiving Edward, who had escaped from the old 
woman’s arms, and was climbing the steep staircase of 
the mill on his hands and knees. 

“He has seen you already,” replied the miller; “do 
not hide yourself, and seem to take no notice of him. It 
is not certain that he will know you, dressed as you are.” 

Edward, in fact, stopped, puzzled and silent. It was a 
month since Marcelle had abruptly left Montmorency to 
go to her dying husband. The boy had not seen Lemor 
since, and a month is an age in such a young child’s 
memory. It is true this boy was precocious in the de¬ 
velopment of his faculties, but Lemor without a beard, 
his face dusty with flour, and wrapped in a peasant’s 
blouse, was not very recognizable. Edward stood petri¬ 
fied before him for a minute, but meeting the grave and 
indifferent look of the friend who usually caught him in 
his arms, he cast down his eyes with a sort of embarrass¬ 
ment, and even of fear — a feeling which, in children, 
almost always mingles with astonishment; then he ap¬ 
proached the miller, and said to him with the serious and 
meditative air he often wore : 

“ Who is that man there? ” 

“ That? that is my mill-boy, Antoine.” 

“ Thou hast two, then? ” 

“Boys? Good! I have them by dozens. That is 
Alochon No. 2.” 

“ And Jean is Alochon No. 3 ? ” 

“ As you say, General.” 

“ Is thy Antoine cross? ” 

“No, no! but he is rather stupid, rather deaf, and 
does not play with children.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIRAULT. 


191 

‘‘In that case I will go play with Jean,” said Edward, 
going carelessly away. At four years old the heart 
knows not what it is to be deceived, and the word of a 
beloved person has more power over the mind than the 
testimony of the senses. 

The grain which the miller was that evening to make 
into flour was brought to the hopper. It was M. Bric- 
olin’s, contained in two sacks, each marked with two 
enormous initials. 

“ See,” said Grand-Louis, this time with a laugh of 
some bitterness, “ Bricolin of Blanchemout, as if to say, 
Bricolin living at Blanchemont. But when he buys the 
estate he will have to put another little b between the 
two great ones. That will read, Bricolin, Baron of 
Blanchemont.” 

“ How ! ” said Lemor, occupied with another idea ; “ is 
this the Blanchemont grain ? ” 

u Yes,” replied the miller, who divined his meaning 
before he spoke, “it is the grain which will make the 
flour — of which will be made the bread — that will be 
eaten by Mme. Marcelle and Mile. Rose. They say that 
Rose is too rich to marry a man like me ; it is I, never¬ 
theless, who furnish her with the bread which she eats ! ” 

“ So, we labor for them ! ” resumed Lemor. 

“ Yes, yes, boy. Attention to the word of command ! 
This is no time to slight duty. The deuce ! I might work 
for the king, and not put half so much heart into it! ” 

This every-day circumstance in the customs of the mill 
took a romantic and almost poetic coloring in the brain 
of the young Parisian, and he set himself to help the 
miller with such zeal and attention, that in the course of 
two hours he was perfectly acquainted with the trade. 
He found no difficulty in accustoming himself to the ele¬ 
mentary and almost barbarous mechanism of the estab¬ 
lishment. lie comprehended the improvements which, 
with a little ready money (the forbidden fruit to the 
peasant), might be made in the rustic machine. He soon 
learned in patois the technical names of each part and 
each motion. Jean was a little disturbed and jealous at 
seeing him so active, and in such favor with his master. 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


192 

But when Grand-Louis took pains to explain to Iiim that 
the Parisian was there only temporarily, and that his 
(Jean’s) place was not threatened with invasion, he was 
reassured, and even determined, like a good Berrichon 
as he was, to yield a portion of his work for some days to 
his officious companion. He made use of his liberty to 
go to Blanchemont, and carry back Edward, who began 
to be tired, and troubled at being so long parted from his 
mother. Grand’-Marie could no longer succeed in amus¬ 
ing him, and as Fanchon had come for him, Jean was 
not sorry to accompany his young fellow-servant to the 
chateau. 

When the task was finished, Lemor, his forehead bathed 
with sweat and his v face animated, felt more supple in 
body and more vigorous in will than for many months 
before. The long reveries which preyed upon his youth 
gave place to the healthy vitality, physical and moral, 
which Providence jias attached to the accomplishment of 
human labor when the object is well defined, and the 
fatigue proportioned to the strength. 

“Friend,” cried he, “labor is beautiful and holy in 
itself; you were right in saying so as we began! God 
imposes and blesses it. It seemed sweet to me to work 
for my mistress’s food ; 0 I 1 ! how much sweeter still to 
work at the same time to nourish the life of a family of 
equals and brothers ! When each shall labor for all, and 
all for each, how light will be the toil, how fair our life ! ” 

“ Yes, my profession, in that case, would be one of the 
most elegant! ” said the miller, with a smile of quick in¬ 
telligence. “ Grain is the noblest of plants; bread the 
purest of food. My function might well deserve some es¬ 
teem, and on holidays a crown of wheat-ears and blue¬ 
bells might be wreathed around poor Grand*-Louise, to 
whom no one pays any attention now ; but what would 
you have? In these days of ours, as M. Bricolin says, 
I am only a mercenary in his employ, and he says of me : 

4 A man like him think of my daughter ! A wretch who 
grinds the grain, when it is I who sow the seed and pos¬ 
sess the earth ! ’ A fine difference, nevertheless ! My 
hands are cleaner than his are with turning over manure ; 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT . 


*93 


that is all. So now, my boy, the work is done, let us 
make haste with the soup. I will warrant you will think 
it better than in the morning, though it should be ten 
times as salt; and then I will take myself to Blanche- 
mont, to carry these two sacks.” 

44 Without me ? ” 

u Doubtless ! Have you a fancy to be seen at the farm ? ” 
“ Nobody there knows me.” 

“ That is true. But what would you do there?” 
u Nothing ; I will help you unload your sacks.” 

* 4 And what good will that do you ? ” 
u I may see somebody pass through the court.” 

44 And if somebody should not pass ? ” 

44 I shall see the house that she inhabits. Perhaps I 
shall hear her name spoken.” 

44 In my opinion we might give ourselves that pleasure 
without going so far.” 

44 It is two steps from here? ” 

44 You have an answer for everything. Will you com¬ 
mit no imprudence ? ” 

44 You think I do not love her, then? Would you com¬ 
mit any in my place ? ” 

44 1 might,— if I were beloved ! Let us see ! you will 
not gaze at her as you did from the loft door ? Do you 
know I thought you would set my hay on fire? ” 

44 1 will not look at her at all.” 

44 And you will not speak to her?” 

44 What pretext could I have to speak to her? ” 

44 You will seek none ? ” 

44 1 will not even enter the court, if you forbid me. I 
will look at the walls from a distance.” 

44 That will be wisest. I will permit you to scent, 
from the gate, the wind that blows over the chateau — 
that is all.” 

The two friends started at fall of day, Sophie, loaded 
with the two sacks, walking magisterially before them. 
Grand-Louis, sad at heart, spoke little, and gave vent to 
his gloomy thoughts only by heavy strokes with his whip, 
right and left, upon the hedges filled with wild mulberries 
13 


J 94 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


and pale honeysuckles, more fragrant than those we cul¬ 
tivate in our gardens. 

They had passed a cluster of cabins called Le Cortioux, 
when Lemor stopped, as he was walking by the side of 
the ditch, surprised to see a man lying at full length under 
the hedge, his head supported upon a plump wallet. 

“ Oh! oh! ” said the miller, without expressing any 
wonder, “ you came near walking on my uncle” 

The sleeper awoke with a start, at the sonorous voice 
of Grand-Louis. He rose briskly, seized with both hands 
a great staff that lay by his side, and enunciated an en¬ 
ergetic oath. 

“Don’t be vexed, uncle!” said the miller, laughing. 
“It is only friends who pass, by your leave ; for though 
the roads are yours, as you say, you don’t forbid any one 
to use them, do you? ” 

“ Oh ! ho ! ” said the man, rising entirely, and display¬ 
ing a gigantic form and a repulsive appearance ; “I am 
the best of proprietors, thou knowest, my little fellow. 
But it is rather an abuse of my goodness to walk over 
my face. Who may this bad Christian be, that does 
not see an honest man stretched on his bed? I do not 
know him, and I know everybody here and elsewhere.” 

So speaking, the beggar disdainfully measured Lemor 
with his eye, while the latter, on his side, observed him 
with repugnance. He was a bony old man, covered with 
filthy rags, and with a stiff beard of mingled black and 
white, that resembled the panoply of a hedgehog. His 
high-crowned hat, partly falling in shreds, was sur¬ 
mounted— as if in derision — by a bow of white ribbon, 
and a bunch of sadly faded artificial flowers. 

“ Make yourself easy, uncle,” said the miller ; “ this 
is a good Christian — go to ! ” 

“And how is one to know him?” resumed uncle Ca- 
doche, taking off his hat and reaching it to Henri. 

“ Come,” said the miller to Lemor, “ don’t you under¬ 
stand? My uncle asks you for a sou.” 

Lemor threw his alms into Ihe hat of the uncle, who 
took it immediately out, and turned it over in his long 
fingers with a sort of rapture. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


95 


“It is a great sou ! ” said he, with a sordid smile. 
‘‘Perhaps ten revolutionary derimes! No! God be 
praised! It is a Louis XV.! it is my king! a king 
whose reign I have seen ! It will bring good luck to me, 
and to thee too, my nephew,” added he, laying his large 
angular hand upon Lemor’s shoulder. “Thou mayst 
now say that thou art one of my family, and I will recog¬ 
nize thee, even if disguised from head to foot.” 

“Come, come, good-evening, uncle,” said Grand- 
Louis, joining his offering to Lemor’s. “Are we friends?” 

“ Always ! ” answered the beggar, in a solemn voice. 
“Thou hast always been a good relation—the best of 
all my family. Therefore it is to thee, Grand-Louis, 
that I shall leave all my wealth. I have told thee so for 
a long time, and thou slialt see if I keep my word.” 

“ Keep it! parbleu, I reckon upon it! ” said the miller, 
gayly. “ Will the bouquet be part of it?” 

“ The hat will, but the bouquet and the ribbons are for 
my last mistress.” 

“ The deuce! But I thought a great deal of the 
bouquet! ” 

“ I believe you did,” said the beggar, who was walk¬ 
ing behind the two young men, and followed them with 
an alert step, notwithstanding his great age. “ The 
bouquet is the most precious thing in the inheritance. It 
is blessed, seest thou? It came from Saint Solange’s 
chapel.” 

“ How can so devout a man as you call yourself talk 
of his mistresses?” said Henri, who felt only a strong 
disgust for this absurd personage. 

“Hold thy tongue, nephew ! ” replied uncle Cadoche, 
with a side glance at him ; “ thou speakest like a fool! ” 

“ Excuse him, he is only a child,” said the miller, who 
habitually jested with the tall unde. “ He has no beard 
on his chin yet, and thinks he must talk ! But where 
are you going so late, uncle? Do you expect to sleep in 
your own house to-night? It is very far.” 

“ Oh, no; I am going directly to Blanchemont, for the 
fete to-morrow.” 


196 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


44 Ah, true ! it is a good day for you. You will col¬ 
lect at least forty sous,” 

44 No, but still enough to have a mass said to the good 
saint of the parish.” 

44 Then you still like masses ? ” J 

44 The mass, and brandy, nephew, and a little tobacco, 
are the salvation of soul and body.” 

( ‘ I do not deny it, but brandy is not warming enough 
to allow one to sleep in such a way, in a ditch, at your 
age, uncle.” 

44 One sleeps where one happens to be, nephew. If 
you are tired, you stop and take a nap on a stone, or 
your wallet — when it is not too empty.” 

44 It is my opinion that yours is pretty full this 
evening.” 

44 Yes, nephew, thou oughtest to let me put it on thy 
horse ; it tires me a little.” 

44 No, Sophie has enough of a load. But give it to me, 
I will carry it for you to Blanchemont.” 

44 That is right! Thou art young, and shouldst wait 
upon thy uncle. See, here it is. Is thy blouse clean ? ” 
he added, with an air of disgust. 

44 0h, it is only flour,” said the miller, taking the beg¬ 
gar’s satchel; 44 it will not quarrel with bread. Thou¬ 
sand thunders ! there is something inside —old crusts? ” 

44 Crusts ! I take no crusts. I should like to see any¬ 
body offer them to me! I would fling them in their 
faces, as I did once to the Bricolin woman.” 

44 Is that what has made her afraid of you? ” 

44 Yes. She says that I might set fire to her barns,” 
said the beggar, with a sinister look. Then he added, in 
a wheedling tone, 44 Poor dear woman of the good God ! 
as if I were wicked ! Whom did I ever injure?” 

44 Nobody that I know,” answered the miller. 44 If 
you had, you would not be where you are now.” 

44 Never, never did I harm any one,” returned uncle 
Cadoche, lifting his hand towards heaven, 44 since I have 
never been taken up by justice for anything whatsoever. 
Have I been in prison a single day of my life ? I have 
always served the good God, and the good God has 


THE MILLER OF AJSGIBAULT. 


19 7 

always protected me, these forty years that I gain my 
poor living.” 

44 About how old are you, uncle?” 

“ I do not know, my child, for the register of my bap¬ 
tism has been mislaid in the course of time, like many 
others ; but I must be more than eighty. I am about ten 
years older than Father Bricolin, who seems, nevertheless, 
older than I.” 

“It is true enough, you are in fine preservation, and 
he — but he indeed met with accidents which do not 
happen to everybody.” 

“ Yes,” said the beggar, with a deep sigh of compunc¬ 
tion. “ He has had misfortunes ! — ” 

“Is it a story of your time? Are you not of that 
country ? ” 

“ Yes, I was born in Buffec, near Beaufort, where the 
accident happened.” 

“ And you were then in the country? ” 

“ Oh ! I should think I was. Sweet holy Virgin ! I 
cannot think of it without trembling! Were we afraid 
in those days ! ” 

“Can you be afraid of anything — you, who are 
always alone at all hours on the roads ? ” 

“ Oh ! now, my good son, what is there to fear for a 
poor man like me, who possesses only the three rags 
that cover him ? But in those times I had a little prop¬ 
erty, and lost it by the robbers.” 

44 How ! Were the chauffeurs with you too ? ” 

44 Oh ! not at all! I had not enough to tempt them; 
but I had a little house that I let to journeymen. When 
the country was full of fear of the robbers, nobody would 
live in it. I could not sell it, and I had not enough to 
repair it. It fell into ruin. I was obliged to incur 
debts that I could not pay. Then my field, the house, 
and a pretty hemp-field that I had, were sold by forced 
sale. So I was compelled to take up the wallet; I left 
the country, and since that time I always journey like 
the children of the good God.” 

44 But you never quit this district? ” 


198 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


44 Surely not; I am known here- I have my patrons 
and all my family here.” 

“ I thought you were all alone?” 

44 And all my nephews, then ? ” 

“ True, I forgot; me, for instance, my comrade here, 
and all those who never refuse you their sous to buy your 
tobacco. But say now, uncle, who were these chauffeurs 
of whom we were speaking?” 

44 Ask the good God, my poor child, for He alone 
knows.” 

44 1 have heard that there were rich people among 
them, who were in good standing.” 

44 They say there are some still living who are full and 
fat, have good estates, good houses, make a figure in the 
country, and would not give so much as half a sou to a 
poor man. Ah ! if they had been people like me, they 
would all have been hung ! ” 

44 True enough, Father Cadoche ! ” 

44 1 was still very fortunate in not being accused, for 
everybody was suspected in those times, and justice fell 
only on the poor. Those were imprisoned .who were 
white as snow, and when the true culprits were in hand, 
orders came from higher powers to release them.” 

1,4 Why was that? ” 

44 Because they were rich, doubtless. When didst thou 
ever see, nephew, that the rich were not pardoned? ” 

44 That is true again. Come, uncle, here we are at 
Blanchemont. Where will you have me carry your 
bread bag ? ” 

44 Give it back to me, nephew. I will go sleep in the 
curate’s stable; he is a holy man, and never sends me 
away. He is like thee, Grand-Louis ; thou hast never 
shown me the cold shoulder. Therefore thou shalt be 
recompensed; thou shalt be my heir, as I have always 
promised thee. Except the bouquet, which I shall give 
to little Borgnotte, thou shalt have all — my house, my 
clothes, my wallet, and my pig.” 

44 Good, good ! ” said the miller ; 44 1 see that I shall be 
too rich at last, and that all the girls will want to marry 
me.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


l 99 


U I admire your heart, Grand-Louis,” said Lemor, 
when the beggar had disappeared behind the hedges of 
the enclosure, which he plunged straight through without 
troubling himself to find a gap or seek a path. 44 You 
treat this beggar as if he were really your uncle.” 

u Why not, since he takes pleasure in playing the great 
relation, and promising his inheritance to everybody? 
A fine inheritance, by my faith! His mud-cabin, where 
he sleeps with his pig, neither better nor worse than St. 
Anthouy, and his cast-off rags, which turn one’s stomach ! 
If that were all I needed to satisfy M. Bricolin, my af¬ 
fairs are in fine order ! ” 

“ Yet, in spite of the disgust with which his person in¬ 
spires you, you took his wallet on your shoulders to ease 
him. Louis, your spirit is truly evangelic.” 

“ A mighty wonder ! Could I refuse so slight a ser¬ 
vice to a poor devil who, at the age of eighty, still begs 
his bread ? After all, he is an honest fellow. Every¬ 
body feels an interest in him, because he is trusty, though 
a little hypocritical and libertine.” 

44 So it seemed to me.” 

“Bah! What virtues do you think such people can 
have ? It is much when they have only vices, and do 
not commit crimes. Did he not talk sensibly, notwith¬ 
standing all ? ” 

44 Towards the last I was struck with it. But why 
does he think himself everybody’s uncle ? Is it a trace 
of insanity ? ” 

44 Oh, no! it is a way he has. Many of his trade 
affect some peculiarity to make themselves amusing, 
draw attention, and divert people who would give alms 
neither from prudence nor charity. It is unhappily the 
custom among us for the poor to play the part of buf¬ 
foons at the gates of the rich. But here we are at the 
farm of Blanchemont, comrade. Stay, take my advice ! 
do not go in. I do not doubt that you would control 
yourself; but she, unprepared, might give a scream, or 
utter a word—let me at least warn her.” 

44 But everybody is still up in the village ; will not the 


zoo 


THE MILLER OF ANGIE A UL T. 


presence of an unknown person be remarked, if I wait 
for you here ? ” 

“ Then you will do me the kindness to step into the 
warren. No one walks there at this hour. Sit down 
rationally in a corner. As I come back, I will whistle 
as if I called a dog, saving your presence, and you will 
rejoin me.” 

Lemor yielded, hoping that the ingenious miller would 
find some means to bring Marcelle in this direction. He 
slowly followed the shaded path through the warren, 
stopping every instant to listen, holding his breath and 
retracing his steps, not to lose a moment of so thrice 
happy a meeting. 

It was not long before he heard light steps brush the 
turf, and a rustling in the foliage which convinced him 
that some one was approaching. He slipped into the bushes 
to be sure that he was not mistaken, and saw dimly 
through the leaves the slender form of a woman coming 
towards him. We easily believe what we desire, and 
Henri, not doubting that it was Marcelle, sent by the 
miller, came forward and hastened to meet the figure. 
But he stopped on hearing an unknown voice call cau¬ 
tiously, “ Paul! Paul! art thou there, Paul? ” 

Perceiving that he was mistaken, and thinking that he 
had fallen upon the appointed rendezvous of another, 
Henri would have escaped. But he made some noise in 
stepping on the dry branches, and the maniac, seeing him 
in the midst of her dream of love, darted upon his track 
with the speed of an arrow, crying in a plaintive voice : 
“ Paul! Paul! I am here ! Paul! it is I! — do not go 1 
Paul! Paul! thou always fliest me 1 ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


201 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE MANIAC. 



EMOR was not much troubled at first by this adveu- 


' ture. He thought that under favor of the night he 
could easily avoid this woman. He had not distin¬ 
guished her sufficiently to suspect her insanity, and nat¬ 
urally flattered himself that he could run much better 
than she. But he soon found that he was mistaken, and 
that all his agility was not too much merely to maintain 
the distance between them. He was obliged to cross the 
entire warren, and soon came to the avenue at its foot, 
where Bricoline was accustomed to walk for whole hours, 
and where, in certain places, the grass was worn by her 
feet. The fugitive, till now somewhat impeded by the 
roughness of the path and the roots entangled above the 
earth, exerted all his strength in the avenue to reach the 
terrace. But the maniac, when under the influence of 
one burning idea, became light as a dry leaf driven by 
storms, and she followed him so rapidly that Lemor, lost 
in surprise, and thinking it of great importance that he 
should not be seen near enough for future recognition, 
plunged anew into the wood, and tried to lose himself iu 
the shade. But the maniac knew every tree, every 
thicket, and — so to speak — every branch in the 
warren. During the twelve years that she had passed 
her life there, there was not a nook into which her body 
was not mechanically accustomed to penetrate, although 
the state of her mind prevented her from forming any ra¬ 
tional plan of action. Yet more, the height of her frenzy 
made her completely insensible to physical suffering. 
She would have left fragments of her flesh upon the 


202 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


thorns without perceiving it, and this sort of cataleptic 
condition gave iier no little advantage over him she 
wished to reach. She was, besides, so small, her atten¬ 
uated body occupied so little space, that she slid like a 
lizard between serried stems, where Lemor was obliged 
laboriously to force himself a passage, or, more fre¬ 
quently, to retrace his steps. 

Finding himself more embarrassed than before, he re¬ 
gained the avenue, still closely pursued, and determined 
to leap the ditch, although unable to estimate its width, 
on account of the thick bushes that covered it. He 
sprang, and fell on his knees among the brambles. But 
he had scarcely time to rise, when the phantom, crossing 
this obstacle without a leap, and heeding neither stones 
nor briars, was at his side, and clinging to his garments. 
Lemor’s imagination was vivid as an artist’s or poet’s; 
and seeing himself seized by this truly fearful being, he 
believed that he was in the power of a dream, and, strug¬ 
gling as if with nightmare, succeeded in freeing himself 
from the madwoman, who uttered inarticulate shrieks, 
and in resuming his race across the fields. 

But she was upon his track, as agile in the bristling 
furrows of a newly reaped wheat-field, where the stubble 
was hard and prickly, as she had been in the windings of 
the park. At the end of the field Lemor cleared another 
fence, and found himself in a hollow way of rapid de¬ 
scent. He had not taken ten steps when he heard the 
spectre behind him, still crying in a stifled voice, “Paul! 
Paul! why dost thou fly from me ? ” 

Lemor’s imagination was more and more wrought upon 
by the fantastic nature of this race. While disengaging 
himself from the maniac’s grasp, the clear starlight had 
permitted him vaguely to discern the cadaverous face, the 
lean and torn arms, and the long black locks floating over 
the bloody rags of this singular apparition. That the 
unhappy creature was insane, had not crossed his mind. 
He thought himself pursued by a jealous woman, crazy 
perhaps for the moment, since she persisted in taking him 
for another. He doubted whether he should not stop to 
speak to and undeceive her ; but how, then, should he ex- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2°3 


plain his presence in the warren? Unknown, and gliding 
like a thief through the darkness, would not such a debut 
awaken strange suspicions at the farm, and ought he not, 
above all, to avoid signalizing his appearance in the coun¬ 
try by a scandalous or absurd adventure ? 

lie thus resolved to run on, and this extraordinary 
exercise lasted nearly half an hour without interruption. 
Lemor’s brain grew heated in spite of himself, and at 
moments he felt himself becoming frautic, in seeing the 
inconceivable persistence and the supernatural speed of 
the relentless phantom on his track. It was like the 
legends told of goblins weird, and malignant spirits of 
night. 

At last Lemor found the Vauvre at the bottom of the 
valley, and, though bathed in sweat, he was about to throw 
himself in and swim across, conceiving that this obstacle 
placed between him and the spectre would finally deliver 
him, when he heard behind him a horrible, agonized 
scream, which sent a sudden chill through his whole 
being. He turned and saw nothing. The maniac had 
vanished. 

Henri’s, first impulse was to profit by what might be 
only a moment’s respite to fly still farther, and entirely 
conceal his course. But this fearful scream left too 
painful an impression on him. Had it really proceeded 
from this woman ? The sound was scarcely human ; and 
yet what grief, what terrible despair it seemed to express ! 
“ Could she have fallen and severely wounded herself?” 
thought Lemor ; u or, when she lost sight of me behind the 
willows, did she think I was drowned? Was it a cry of 
agony, or terror? Or was it but rage at not being able 
to follow me into the water, where she might suppose I 
had thrown myself? But if she should have fallen into 
some ditch, or down some precipice which I did not see 
as I ran ? If this unhappy chance-encounter should cost 
the unfortunate creature her life ! No, whatever be the 
result, it is impossible for me to abandon her in the hor¬ 
rors of the last agony.” 

Lemor retraced his steps, and sought the unknown 


204 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL T. 


without finding her. The steep road by which he had 
come skirted the extremity of the warren ; it was en¬ 
closed by lofty hedges and no ditch ; there was no bog, no 
pool where she could have been drowned. The sandy 
soil showed no sign, as far as Lemor could distinguish, 
of the fall of a body. He was still seeking, lost in con¬ 
jecture, when he heard some one repeatedly whistle, as if 
^ailing a dog. At first he was so preoccupied and ex¬ 
cited wdth his adventure, as to pay little attention to it. 
But, finally, he remembered that this was the signal 
agreed upon with the miller, and, in despair of finding his 
pursuer, he answered Graud-Louis’s call by another 
whistle. 

“ I think the devil is in you,” said the latter to him, in 
a low voice, when they met in the warren, “to go and 
walk so far when I advised you not to stir! It is a 
quarter of an hour here that I have been hunting for you 
in the wood, not,daring to call too loud, and losing pa¬ 
tience— But how you look! all panting and torn! 
The deuce take me, my blouse has had a poor time of it 
on your back, by what I can see. But speak ! you look 
like a hunted rabbit, or rather like a man chased by a 
will-o’-the-wisp.” 

“You have hit it, my friend. Either Jean’s stories 
of the nocturnal goblins of the Black Valley have an 
inexplicable groundwork of reality, or I have had a hal¬ 
lucination. But I think it is an hour (perhaps an age, 
for aught I know!) that I have been fighting against the 
devil.” 

“ If you did not obstinately drink cold water at all 
your meals,” replied the miller, “I should think that you 
had simply been in the necessary condition for meeting 
the Wild Hunter, the white leveret, or Georgeon the wolf- 
leader. But you are too learned and rational a man to 
believe in such stories. Something must, indeed, have 
happened to you. A mad dog, perhaps ? ” 

“Worse than that,” said Lemor, gradually recovering 
his spirits ; “a mad woman, my friend ! a sorceress, who 
ran quicker than I, and who vanished, I know not how, 


THE MILLER OE ANGIBAULT. 


205 


at the moment that I was about to fling myself into the 
water to get clear of her.” 

“A woman? 0I1! oh ! and what did she say?” 

“ She took me for one Paul, who seems to be very 
near her heart.” 

“ I guessed as much — it was she ! it was the crazy girl 
from the chateau. How could I be so stupid as not to 
foresee that you might meet her here! Truly, it went 
out of my head ! We are so used to seeing her trotting 
about in the evening like an old weasel, that we pay no 
more attention to her. And yet it is a heart-rending 
story when one thinks of it! But what the devil set her 
upon you ? She generally flies when any one comes her 
way. Her trouble must be worse of late ; yet the dose 
was strong enough before, poor girl! ” 

“ Who is this unfortunate creature ? ” 

“You shall know by and by. Let us walk faster, if 
you please. You look half dead with fatigue.” 

“ I believe that I broke my knees in my fall.” 

“Nevertheless, there is somebody at the end of the 
path there, who is tired with waiting for you,” said the 
miller, lowering his voice still more. 

“Oh!” cried Lemor, “I feel lighter than the night 
wind! ” 

And he began to run. 

“ Gently ! ” said the miller, holding him back. “ Run 
only on the grass. No noise! She is there under that 
great tree. Do not leave the spot. I will keep watch 
around in case of surprise.” 

“ Does she run any risk in coming here, then? ” said 
Lemor, alarmed. 

“ If I had thought so, I would have prevented her 
from coming! They are all busy at the new chateau 
with to-morrow’s fete. But at least I could keep off* the 
crazy girl, if she were to take a fancy to return and tor¬ 
ment you.” 

Henri, lost in his happiness, forgot all else, and hurried 
to the feet of Marcelle, who was waiting for him beneath 
a clump of oaks, in the most unfrequented part of the 
wood. 


20 6 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


There was no room for explanation in their first rap¬ 
ture. Diffident and reserved as they had always been, 
still they felt a transport which no human words could 
have fitly expressed. They were bewildered at meeting 
so soon, after having almost believed in an eternal separ¬ 
ation, and yet they sought not to explain to each other the 
processes by which their minds had been brought to such 
speedy retraction of all their courageous projects of sacri¬ 
fice. They mutually divined the bitter pain and the irre¬ 
sistible impulse that had forced them together at the very 
moment when they had vowed to part. 

44 Madman ! who would have left me forever! ” said 
Marcelle, yielding her beautiful hand to Lemor. 

44 Cruel! who would have banished me for a year! ” 
replied Henri, covering that fair hand with burning 
kisses. 

And Marcelle clearly understood that her resolution of 
a year of courage had been more sincere in her own eyes 
than the eternal exile to which Lemor had tried to con¬ 
demn himself. 

Thus, when they could speak, an effort of which they 
were incapable till they had long gazed at each other in 
the silence of ecstasy, Marcelle was the first to recur to 
this truly laudable design. 

44 Lemor,” said she, 44 this is but a sunbeam between 
two clouds. The law of duty must be obeyed. Even if 
here we should meet with no obstacle to the security of 
our relation, there would be something deeply irreligious 
in so quick an union, and this hour ought to be our last 
meeting before the expiration of my mourning. Tell me 
that you love me, and that I shall be your wife, and I 
shall have all the strength necessary to wait for you.” 

44 Do not speak to me now of separation ! ” said Lemor, 
impetuously. 44 Oh! let me taste the full sweetness of 
this fairest moment of my life. Let me forget what was 
yesterday, and what will be to-morrow. See what a soft 
night, what a beautiful heaven ! How quiet and balmy 
is this spot! You are here ! It is indeed you, Marcelle ! 
It is not your shadow ! We are both here! We have 
found each other again by chance, and involuntarily! 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


20 7 


God willed it, and we were both so happy to obey ! — you, 
too, Marcelle, as well as I? Is it possible? No, I do 
not dream, for you are here, near me, with me ! alone ! 
happy! we love one another so well! We could not 
part, we cannot, we never can !” 

u And yet, my friend— ” 

“ I know —I know what you would say. To-morrow, 
some day, you shall write to me, and give me your com¬ 
mands. You well know that I shall obey ! Why speak 
to me of it this evening? Why mar this moment, which 
has not its equal in my whole life ? Let me persuade my¬ 
self that it will never end. Marcelle, I see you ! Oh ! 
how clearly I see you, in spite of the darkness ! How 
beautiful you have grown within three days—since this 
morning, when you were already so beautiful! Oh ! tell 
me that your hand shall never again leave mine ! How 
firmly I hold it! ” 

u Ah, you are right, Lemor ! Let us rejoice in meet¬ 
ing again, and not remember yet that we must part — to¬ 
morrow — some day.” 

“ Yes, some day — another day ! ” cried Henri. 

“ Do me the favor to speak lower,” said the miller, 
drawing near. u I cannot help hearing all that you say, 
Monsieur Henri! ” 

The two lovers remained for nearly an hour lost in a 
pure ecstasy, making sweet dreams for the future, and 
speaking of their happiness as if it were not to be broken, 
but begun with the morrow. The perfumes of the night 
were borne to them by the breeze, and the serene stars 
passed over their heads, without inducing them to remark 
the inevitable passage of Time, who lingers only in the 
hearts of happy lovers. 

But the miller, after having given more than one sig¬ 
nal of impatience from a distance, came and interrupted 
them when the declination of the polar stars marked ten 
o’clock on the celestial dial. 

“ My friends,” said he, “ it is impossible for me to 
leave you here, and impossible to wait for you an instant 
longer. I no longer hear the cow-herds singing in the 
farm-yard, and the lights are gone from the windows of 


208 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


the new chateau. Mile. Rose’s is the only one burn¬ 
ing ; she is waiting for Mme. Marcelle to go to bed. 
M. Bricolin will soon make his rounds with his dogs, 
as he always does on the eve of a fete day. We must 
part quickly.” 

Lemor remonstrated ; he had, he said, but just come. 

“ That may be,” said the miller ; “ but for me, do you 
know I must go to La Chatre this evening?” 

“ How ! on my business? ” said Marcelle. 

“ So please you ! I want to see your notary before he 
goes to bed, for I do not care to speak to him to-morrow 
in open day, lest M. Bricolin should think me conspiring 
against him.” 

“But, Grand-Louis,” said Marcelle, “I do not wish 
that you should risk, for me — ” 

“ Enough, enough ! ” replied the miller. “ I am going 
to do just as I please. And hark! I hear the barking 
of those yellow dogs ! Go back through the field, Mme. 
Marcelle, and we, my Parisian, will take the upper way, 
if you please. Come ! let us scamper ! ” 

The lovers parted without exchanging another word. 
They feared to be remiuded that they must look upon this 
interview as their last. Marcelle had not the courage to 
fix a day for Henri’s departure, and he, dreading lest she 
should fix it, hastened away, after repeatedly kissing her 
hand in silence. 

“ Well, what have you determined? ” asked the miller, 
when they reached the edge of the park. 

“ Nothing, my friend,” said Lemor. “ We spoke only 
of our happiness — ” 

“ For the future ; but now ? ” 

“ There is no present, no future. All is alike when 
one loves.” 

“ Here is where you scoured the country. I hope now 
that you will keep yourself quiet, and not make me race 
through the woods at night in a ppnic. Come, my lad, 
you are on your road. Can you easily find Angibault 
alone ? ” 

“ Perfectly well. But do you not wish me to accom¬ 
pany you to the town where you are going ? ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


209 


“No, it is too far. One of us would be on foot and 
delay the other, unless we were to do as is the fashion 
here, and both mount Sophie ; but the poor beast is too 
old, and, besides, she has not had her supper yet. I am 
going to look for her by a tree down there, where I fast¬ 
ened her after I made believe go back to the mill. Do 
you know I have been really anxious about leaving poor 
Sophie so in God’s keeping! I hid her well in the 
branches; but if some of the vagabonds who always 
come for the assembly should have taken a fancy to trick 
her away from me ! While you were billing and cooing 
down there, Sophie ran in my head ! — ” 

“ Let us go together and find her ! ” 

“ No, no, not so! You are always ready enough to 
turn back towards the chateau, I see that well enough ! 
Go on, and tell my mother to go to bed without troubling 
herself; I may come home rather late. M. Taillaud, 
the notary, will keep me to sup. He loves his ease, is a 
bit of a gourmand and a kind man. Thus I shall have 
time to talk to him about the Blanchemont affairs, and 
Sophie will eat her measure without asking his advice.’’ 

Lemor did not insist upon accompanying his friend. 
Whatever affection and gratitude he felt towards the good 
miller, he preferred to be alone, after the evening’s emo¬ 
tions. He longed to think of Marcelle without disturb¬ 
ance, and to retrace the sweet dream he had just enjoyed 
at her feet, and he took the way to Angibault very much 
as a somnambulist takes that to his bed. I know not 
whether he followed the direct road, whether he crossed 
the river by the bridge, whether he doubled his distance, 
or often forgot himself by the fountain margins. The 
night was full of transport; and from the cock that 
roused the cabin echoes with his trumpet cry to the 
cricket mysteriously chirping in the grass, everything 
seemed to him to repeat, in tones of triumph or secrecy, 
the cherished name of Marcelle. 

But when he arrived at the mill, he felt so worn with 
fatigue, that, as soon as he had told the miller’s good 
mother not to wait for her son, he threw himself on the 
little bed that Louis had had prepared for him in his own 


14 . 


210 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


chamber. Grand’-Marie, having warned Jean to wake 
quickly and not make his master wait, when he wanted 
him to put Sophie in the stable, went, also, to rest. But 
maternal tenderness sleeps with but one eye shut; and as 
a storm came up, the good woman waked with a start 
at every peal of thunder that passed over the valley, 
thiuking that she heard her son knocking at Jean’s door 
in the mill. When the day broke, she rose softly and 
went to advise him not to make too much noise, because 
Grand-Louis, who had doubtless returned late, would 
need to sleep longer than usual. She was much sur¬ 
prised, and almost alarmed, when Jean answered that his 
master had not yet returned. 

44 Impossible ! ” said she. 44 He never sleeps out when 
he goes only to Blanchemont.” 

44 Ah! bah ! mistress, it is the eve of the fete. No¬ 
body sleeps over there. The wine-shops are open all 
night. The bag-pipers come in playing their finest 
marches, enough to set one’s heart a-dancing; they wish 
it were already the morrow; nobody goes to bed, for 
fear of oversleeping, and losing ever so little of the fun. 
The master has been amused, and has made a white 
night of it.” 

44 The master does not spend his nights in wine-shops, ; 
answered the mother, shaking her head, after opening the 
stable-door to see if Sophie were not at the manger. 44 1 
thought,” she added, 44 that he had come back without 
choosing to wake thee, Jean. It is hard to him ; he had 
rather wait on himself than disturb a child like thee, 
who sleepest like a log. But he cannot have slept! He 
was very tired, too ; day before yesterday he had a long 
journey. He went to bed late that night, and now this, 
not at all! — ” 

Grand’-Marie began her holiday toilet with a deep 
sigh. 44 This wretched love ! ” thought she, 44 it is that 
which torments him, and keeps him on foot day and 
night. How will it all end with him ? ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


21 i 


CHAPTER XXV. 

SOPHIE. 

npiIE good old woman was lost in her sad thoughts; 

A and, after the custom of some old people, she ex¬ 
pressed them aloud, as she went from her closet to her 
dressing-table, mechanically busied with preparing her 
antique corsage, with basque skirts, and the plaid chintz 
apron which she had fondly preserved from her youth, 
holding it in high esteem, because it had cost then four 
times as much as w r ould now buy a much handsomer 
stuff. 

“ Do not grieve about it, mother,” said Grand-Louis, 
who had heard her from the threshold of the door, where 
he had just come without her perceiving him ; “ all this will 
end as it best can ; but your son will always try to make 
you happy.” 

“Eh! my poor child, I did not see thee!” said the 
mother, a little ashamed, even at her age, at being sur¬ 
prised by her son with her long gray hair fallen over her 
shoulders ; for in her time the peasant women of the 
Black Valley held the concealment of their hair as an ex¬ 
treme point of modesty. But Grand’-Marie soon forgot 
this impulse of superannuated prudery, on seeing the 
miller’s paleness and disorder. 

“Jesus! my God!” said she, clasping her hands; 
“ how tired thou art! One would say that all the night’s 
rain had poured on thee ! And truly, thou art yet damp. 
Go quick, and change thy clothes. Couldst thou not find 
a house to shelter thee? And how wretchedly thou 
lookest this morning! Ah, my poor boy, one would 
say thou wert trying to make thyself sick ! ” 

“Eh! mother, do not worry yourself so!” said the 
miller, forcing his habitual air of cheerfulness. “I 


212 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


passed the night under shelter with friends — people with 
whom I had business, and who made me stay to supper. 
1 only got a little wet because I came home on foot.” 

u On foot? and what hast thou done with Sophie?” 

“I—lent her to — something — down there — ” 

“To whom? something down there? ” 

“ Don’t you know ? Bah ! I will tell you by and by. 
If you want to go to the Assembly, I will take the little 
black mare, and you shall ride on a pillion.” 

“ Thou wert wrong to lend Sophie, my child. She has 
not her equal, and should be spared. I had rather see 
thee lend both the others.” 

“ So had I. But what would you have? It so hap¬ 
pened. Come, mother, I will go and dress, and you will 
call me when you are ready to go.” 

“ No, no, I see that thou hast not tasted sleep this 
night, and thou must take a nap. There is still plenty of 
time before the hour for mass. Ah ! Grand-Louis, how 
thou dost look! it is not worth while to run such a 
race! ” 

“Be easy, mother; I do not feel sick, and I shall not 
do so often. One must be a little crack-brained some¬ 
times ! ” 

And the miller, still more dejected at having troubled 
his mother, whose uneasiness and displeasure were never 
expressed without extreme gentleness and wise reserve, 
went and flung himself on his bed with an angry move¬ 
ment, which awakened Lemor. 

“Are you getting up already?” said the latter, rub¬ 
bing his eyes. 

“ Not at all; I am going to bed, so please you,” an¬ 
swered the miller, beating up his bed with his fist. 

“Friend, you are unhappy!” returned Lemor, thor¬ 
oughly awakened by the unequivocal signs of Grand- 
Louis’s inward rage. 

“Unhappy? Yes, sir, I confess it; perhaps more so 
than the thing is worth ; but, in short, it gives me more 
pain than I could wish. I cannot help it.” 

And large tears rolled from the miller’s weary eyes. 

“ My friend ! ” cried Lemor, leaping from his bed, and 


THE MILLER OF ANGILAULT. 


213 

beginning rapidly to dress himself, “ I plainly see that 
some misfortune has happened to you this night! And 
I sleeping here so quietly ! My God! what "can I do ? 
where shall I run ? ” 

u Ah ! do not start, it is useless,” said Grand-Louis, 
shrugging his shoulders, as if ashamed of his weakness ; 
u I have run enough to-night for nothing, and here I am at 
my wits’ end—and for a piece of nonsense, after all! 
But what would you have! one is as fond of an animal as 
of a person, and regrets an old horse like an old friend. 
You do not understand this, you city people, but we good 
country folks, we live with our beasts, and there is no 
great difference between us ! ” 

“And you have lost Sophie, I understand? ” 

“Lost? yes, that is to say somebody has stolen her 
from me.” 

“Yesterday, perhaps, in the warren?” 

“Exactly. You remember that I had a sort of pre¬ 
sentiment of evil? When you left me, I went back to the 
place where I had snugly hidden her, and from which the 
poor beast, as patient as a lamb, would not certainly have 
loosened herself—she never broke rein or halter in her 
life. Well, sir, horse and bridle, all had disappeared ! 

I searched, I ran — nothing! Then, too, I dared not 
ask much about her, especially at the farm; what would 
they have thought? They would have asked me how I 
could have lost my beast on the way, when I started on 
her back. They would have believed me drunk, and 
Mine. Bricoliu would not have failed to represent to 
Mile. Rose that I had met with some ugly adventure, 
unworthy of a man who thinks of nothing in the world 
but her. I thought at first that some one wanted to play 
me a trick. I went into all the houses. All the town 
was still on foot. I dropped in at one place and another, 
without seeming to have any purpose. I entered every 
stable, even that of the chateau, without being seen; no 
Sophie! Blanchemont is filled at this time with people 
of every flour , and there is certainly some cunning rogue 
in the number who came on foot, and has gone back on 
horseback, thinking that he need see no more of the fete, 


214 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


as it has been good enough for him before its com¬ 
mencement. Come, we must not think of it any longer. 
Luckily, I did not lose my wits in the midst of all this. 
I went on Shank's mare to La Chatre. I saw my notary ; 
it was rather late ; he had doue supper, and w r as rather 
heavy while digesting it; but he promised me to be at the 
fete. When I left him, I still searched and beat the 
thickets like a night hunter. I ran through the rain and 
thunder till daylight, still hoping that I should find my 
thief hidden somewhere. In vain ! I do not wish to 
make a noise about my misfortune, for it would create 
gossip; and if inquiry should be instituted, it would be a 
nice story for us, of a horse hidden in the warren and left 
there for an hour, without my being able to explain why 
and how. I had put her at some distance from your ren¬ 
dezvous, so that if she should move a little, the noise 
would not draw attention toward you. Poor Sophie ! I 
ought to have trusted to her good sense. She would not 
have stirred! ” 

“ Thus I am the cause of this misfortune! Grand- 
Louis, I am more sorry for it than you, and you will 
certainly permit me to indemnify you as much as is in my 
power.” 

“ Silence, sir! I care nothing for the slight sum that 
the old creature might have brought at a fair ! Do you 
think I should feel this anxiety about a hundred or so of 
francs? Oh, no, indeed ! it is she that I regret, and not 
her price; she had none in my eyes. She was so cour¬ 
ageous, so intelligent, she knew me so well! I am sure 
that at this moment she is thinking of me, and looking 
askance upon whoever is taking care of her! If 
he would but take good care of her! If I w T ere 
sure of that, I should be almost consoled. But he w r ill 
rub her down with his whip-handle, aud feed her on 
chestnut burrs! For it must be some knave from La 
Marche who will take her to his mountains to feed in a 
field of stones, instead of her pretty little meadow by the 
water-side, where she lived so well, and where she would 
still play with the young fillies, when the sight of the 
green grass put her in fine good humor! And my 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


215 


mother ! how she will grieve ! Besides, I can never tell 
her how the misfortune happened. I have not had 
courage yet to tell her at all. Do not mention it to her 
till I have contrived some story to make the news less 
bitter to her.” 

There was something at once comic and touching in 
the simple lamentation of the miller ; and Lemor, grieved 
at being the cause of his sorrow, was so much moved by 
it, that the kind-hearted Louis undertook to comfort him. 

“ Come, come,” said he, “ here is enough nonsense 
about a four-legged creature. I know very well that it is 
not your fault, and I did not for an instant think of re¬ 
proaching you with it. Let it not spoil the remembrance 
of your happiness, friend! it is but a small price to pay 
for so sweet an hour as you spent during that time ! 
And if I ever had a rendezvous with Rose myself, I 
should not mind riding horseback on a broomstick all my 
life! Now, do not tell Mme. Marcelle about it. It 
would be like her to give me a horse worth 1,000 francs, 
and that would really hurt me. I do not want to attach 
myself again to animals. There is enough trouble in 
life with people ! Do you, I say, think of your love, and 
of making yourself fine, but still in peasant fashion, to 
go to the fete, for you must let your face begin to be 
known in the country. That will be better than hiding 
yourself, which would start suspicion at once. You will 
see Mme. Marcelle. You will not speak to her, indeed ! 
Besides, you will have no opportunity, she will not dance ; 
she is in deep mourning! but Rose is not, faith ! and I 
count upon dancing with her till night, now that the dear 
papa gives consent. And that makes me think that I 
must sleep a couple of hours, so as not to look like one 
dug up from the grave. Do not vex yourself any more ; 
you will hear me snore in five minutes.” 

The miller kept his word; and when towards ten 
o’clock his black mare, much handsomer but less beloved 
than Sophie, was brought him, when dressed in his Sun¬ 
day garb of fine cloth, his chin well shaved, his color 
fresh and his eye bright, he pressed his powerful steed 
between his long legs, his mother, seating herself behind 


216 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


him by the help of a chair and Lemor’s arm, felt a sensa¬ 
tion of pride at being the mother of the handsome miller. 

They had slept no better at the farm than at the mill; 
and we are obliged to retrace our steps, to put the reader 
in possession of the events that took place there on the 
night preceding the fete. 

Lemor, divided between the painful agitation caused 
him by his strange rencontre with the maniac, and the de¬ 
lirious joy of seeing Marcelle again, had not remarked, 
while in the warren, that the miller was not much calmer 
than himself. Grand-Louis had found the farm-yard full 
of noise and stir. Two pataches and three cabriolets, 
which had brought within their solid walls all the rela¬ 
tions of the Bricolins, were reposing upon their weary 
shafts along the stables and manure heaps. All the poor 
neighbors, eager to earn a scanty pittance, had been put 
in requisition to help in preparing the supper of the 
guests, who were more numerous and more hungry than 
had been expected at the new chateau. M. Bricolin, 
more vain of showing his opulence than annoyed at the 
expense involved, was in the best possible humor. His 
daughters, his sons, his cousins, nephews, and sons-in- 
law, each in turn privately inquired how soon the old 
chateau would be repaired and re-stuccoed, with the Bric¬ 
olin cypher as an escutcheon over the door. 

“ For thou wilt soon be lord and master of Blanche- 
inont,” said they in common chorus, “ and thou wilt man¬ 
age thy fortune somewhat better than all those counts and 
barons to whom thou wilt succeed, to the greater glory of 
the new aristocracy, the nobility of hard money.” Bric¬ 
olin was quite intoxicated with pride ; and while replying 
with a sly smile to his dear relatives, “ Not yet, not yet! 
never, perhaps ! ” he delightedly assumed all the impor¬ 
tance of a lord chatelain. He paid no further regard to 
expense, and, swelling his portly person like a turkey- 
cock, thundered his orders fo his servants, his mother, 
daughter, and wife. The whole house was in confusion. 
Mother Bricolin was plucking scarcely-dead chickens by 
the dozen, and Mme. Bricolin, who had been at first ex¬ 
tremely cross and peevish amidst the tumult of the kitchen, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


217 


begau also, in her way, to be merry, on seeing the ample 
repast, the ready chambers, and the gratifying admira¬ 
tion of her guests. It was under favor of all this dis¬ 
order that the miller was able easily to speak with 
Marcelle, and that she, excusing herself on account of a 
headache, had withdrawn from the supper, and, during 
the festival, joined Lemor at the foot of the warren. 

Rose herself, while the table was setting, had found 
more than one excellent pretext for straying into the 
court, and saying a friendly word or so in passing Graud- 
Louis, as she was used to do. But iier mother, who 
scarcely lost sight of her, soop discovered the meaus of 
ridding herself quickly of the miller. Obliged to sub¬ 
mit to the commands of her husband, who had impera¬ 
tively enjoined upon her not to be rude to Grand-Louis, 
she conceived the idea of satisfying her own hatred, and 
making Rose ashamed of her friendship for him, by rid¬ 
iculing him in concert with her other daughters, and her 
female relations, who were all, young and old, sufficiently 
malicious and insolent to assist her. She hastily and con¬ 
fidentially told each one that this village wit fancied him¬ 
self agreeable to her daughter; that Rose knew nothing 
of it, and paid no attention to it; that M. Bricolin, not 
wishing to believe it, treated him with far too much kind¬ 
ness ; but that she had from good authority learned a 
curious fact, to wit, that the handsome miller , the pet of all 
the abandoned girls in the country, had often boasted that 
he could please the richest bourgeoise whom it might suit 
him to court, one as well as another, — and hereupon 
Mme. Bricolin named those present, laughing, meanwhile, 
sharply and scornfully, tucking up her apron, and setting 
her arms akimbo. 

From the female part of the family, the confidence was 
rapidly passed in whispers to all the Bricolins of the other 
sex, so that Grand-Louis, who thought of nothing but go¬ 
ing to join Lemor, found himself suddenly assailed by 
epigrams so flat as to be incomprehensible, and his retreat 
accompanied by half-stifled laughter, and whisperings of 
extreme impertinence. Not comprehending the mirth 
which he excited, he left the farm uneasy, anxious, and 


218 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


full of contempt for the coarse wit of the country bour¬ 
geois whom this evening had gathered at Blanchemont. 

According to Mme. Bricolin’s advice, care was taken 
that M. Bricolin should not perceive the conspiracy, and 
all engaged to persecute the miller in Rose’s presence the 
next day. “ It was necessary,” said her mother, “ to hu¬ 
miliate this workman before her eyes, to teach her not to 
follow her good heart too far, but keep peasants at a dis¬ 
tance.” 

After supper the fiddlers were sent for, and there was 
dancing in the court in anticipation of the morrow. It 
was in an interval of quiet that the miller, uneasy, and in 
haste to go to La Chatre, had asserted that the evening’s 
amusement was over at the new chateau, and had forced 
the lovers to part much sooner than they wished. 

When Marcelle returned to the farm, the diversion was 
resumed ; and feeling the same need of solitude and thought 
that had carried Lemor into the windings of the Black 
Valley, she returned to the warren, and walked there 
slowly till midnight. The sound of the bagpipe, joined 
to that of the hurdy-gurdy, is rather agonizing to the ears, 
when near; but, from a distance, there is a charm in 
their rustic tones, and in the barbaric harmony which 
gives originality to their frequently charming melodies, 
that penetrates simple natures, and sends a peculiar thrill 
to the hearts of those who remember the sound in their 
happy childhood. The strong vibration of the bagpipe, 
although harsh and nasal, and the piercing cry and ener¬ 
getic staccato of the hurdy-gurdy, are made for one an¬ 
other, and mutually correct each other. Marcelle listened 
to them with pleasure for some time, and observing that 
distance increased their charm, she strolled to the extrem¬ 
ity of the warren, lost in visions of a pastoral life, in 
which, it may easily be conceived, her love made all bur¬ 
dens light. 

But she suddenly stopped on seeing, almost under her 
feet, the maniac stretched on the ground, motionless, and 
apparently dead. Notwithstanding the disgust which she 
felt at the shocking uncleanliness of the unfortunate crea¬ 
ture, she determined, after vainly attempting to rouse her, 


219 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 

to lift her in her arms, and succeeded in dragging her for 
some distance. She leaned her against a tree, and not 
feeling strength to carry her further, was about to go and 
call help from the farm, when Bricoline began to recover 
from her torpor, and to push away with her bony hand 
the long hair, rough with grass and sand, that hung over 
her face. Marcelle helped her remove this thick veil, 
which stifled her breath, and daring for the first time to 
speak to her, asked if she were in pain. 

“ Certainly I am in pain ! ” answered the maniac, with 
shocking indifference, and in the same tone with which 
she might have said — “I am still alive ;” then she added, 
in a brief and imperious voice: “Hast thou seen him? 
He has returned. He will not speak to me. Did he tell 
thee why?” 

“ He told me that he would come back,” said Marcelle, 
trying to indulge her lunacy. 

“Oh, he will not come back!” cried the madwoman, 
impetuously rising ; “he will never come back ! He is 
afraid of me. Everybody is afraid of me, because I am 
very rich, very rich ! So rich that I am forbidden to live ! 
But I will be rich no longer; to-morrow I will be poor. 
It is time the end came. To-morrow everybody shall be 
poor. Thou shalt be poor too, Rose, and thou shalt no 
longer frighten people. I will punish the wretches who 
would kill me, shut me up, poison me — ” 

“ But there are some people who pity you, and only 
wish you well,” said Marcelle. 

“No, there are none ! ” replied the maniac, angrily, and 
fearfully excited. “ They are all my enemies. They 
have tortured me, they have driven red-hot iron into my 
brain. They have nailed me to trees. They have 
thrown me more than a thousand times from the top of 
the towers upon the stones. They have pierced my heart 
with long steel needles. They have flayed me alive; 
that is why I cannot now dress myself without feeling 
horrible pain. They would have torn otf my hair because 
it gave me some defence from their blows. But I will 
be avenged! 1 have drawn up a complaint; fifty-four 
years I have been writing it in every language, that it may 


220 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


reach every sovereign in the universe. I will have them 
restore me Paul, whom they have hidden in their cellar, 
and abuse as they do me. I hear him scream every night 
when they torture him — I know his voice. Hark! 
hark! do you hear him?’* she continued, in an agonized 
voice, listening to the merry notes of the bagpipe. 
“ You see that they are making him suffer a thousand 
deaths! They will devour him, but they shall be pun¬ 
ished, punished! To-morrow, I, too, will make them 
suffer! They shall suffer so that I shall take pity my¬ 
self— ” 

Thus speaking with frantic volubility, the unhappy 
creature darted through the thickets, and rushed towards 
the farm, while it was impossible for Marcelle to follow 
her rapid course and impetuous leaps. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT . 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE EVE OF THE FETE. 

A T the farm the dance was kept up more pertinaciously 
•*- than ever. The servants entered into the pleasure, 
and a thick dust rose from under their feet, but neither that 
inconvenience, nor stones, sun, rain, or the fatigue of 
harvest or mowing, ever yet prevented the Berrichon 
peasant from dancing with enthusiasm. No people dance 
with more mingled sobriety arid passion. To see them 
advance and retreat in the bourree, so gently and reg¬ 
ularly that their crowded ranks resemble the pendulum of 
a clock, one would never guess the pleasure they derive 
from this monotonous exercise, and would still less sus¬ 
pect the difficulty of seizing its elementary rhythm, which 
must be marked with rigorous precision by every step 
and every attitude of the body, while, to attain perfec¬ 
tion, the labor must be entirely concealed by great gravity 
of movement and an apparent languor. But after watch- 
ins: them some time, one is astonished at their indefat- 
igable endurance, and appreciates the kind of soft and 
simple grace which preserves them from lassitude ; and 
certainly an observation of the same persons dancing 
ten or twelve hours together without weariness, would 
make one believe that they were bit by a tarantula, or 
prove that they are passionately fond of dancing. Now 
and then the inward joy of the young men is revealed by a 
peculiar cry which they give without losing the imperturb¬ 
able composure of their faces, and, at times, with a for¬ 
cible stamp of the foot, they bound like young bulls, falling 
back with careless flexibility and resuming their phleg¬ 
matic, swinging motion. The Berrichon character is com¬ 
pletely portrayed in this dance. As for the women, they 


223 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


must invariably glide along the ground so as to graze the 
soil, which demands more lightness than might be thought, 
and their graces are marked by a rigid propriety. 

Rose danced the bourree as well as a peasant girl, 
which is no little praise, and her father watched her with 
pride. Everybody was gay and lively, and the musi¬ 
cians, their thirst well satisfied, spared neither their arms 
nor lungs. The dancers looked more graceful in the half 
obscurity of a fine night, and, above all, the charming 
Rose, who seemed to glide like a white sea-bird over 
calm waters, and to be borne along on the evening 
breeze. The melancholy which was cast over all her 
movements this evening, made her more beautiful than 
usual. 

Still Rose was at heart a true peasant girl of the Black 
Valley in all her native simplicity, and took pleasure in 
the dance, were it only to be in practice to answ r er the 
numerous invitations which Grand-Louis would not fail 
to give her the next day. But suddenly the bagpiper 
lost his footing upon the cask which served him as pedes¬ 
tal, and the wind contained in his instrument escaped in 
a strange and plaintive tone, that caused all the astonished 
dancers to stop and turn towards him. At the same mo¬ 
ment, the hurdy-gurdy, rudely snatched from the hands 
of the other musician, rolled at the feet of Rose, and the 
maniac leaped from the rustic orchestra upon which she 
had sprung with a bound like a wild-cat’s, and threw her¬ 
self into the midst of the bourree, crying, “Woe, woe to 
the assassins! Woe to the executioners!” Then she 
flung herself upon her mother, who had advanced to re¬ 
strain her, seized her throat with her claws, and would 
inevitably have strangled her if the old Mother Bricolin 
had not prevented her, by taking hold of her round the 
waist. The maniac had never committed any act of vio¬ 
lence towards her grandmother, whether it were that, 
without knowing her, she retained a sort of instinctive 
love for her, or that she knew her alone among the others, 
and remembered the good woman’s efforts in favor of her 
love. She made no resistance, and suffered herself to be 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


223 

drawn into the house, uttering agonized shrieks, which 
filled every one with dismay and horror. 

When Marcelle, who had followed the elder Mile. Bric- 
olin as closely as she could, arrived at the house, she 
found the dance interrupted, everybody frightened, and 
Rose nearly fainting. Mme. Bricolin doubtless suffered 
inwardly, were it only at the exposure of this household 
wound to all eyes; but in her activity in restraining the 
lunatic, and stifling the noise of her screams, there was 
something violent and energetic, more like the firmness 
of a policeman incarcerating a disturber of the peace, 
than the solicitude of a despairing mother. The grand¬ 
mother showed as much grief, aud more sensibility. It 
was a sad sight to see the poor old woman, with her 
harsh voice and masculine manners, caressing the maniac, 
and talking to her as to a child, coaxing and flattering by 
turns. u Come, my darling,” she said, u thou always 
behavest so well, thou wilt not make thy grandmother 
unhappy? Thou must go quietly to bed, or else I shall 
be vexed, and will not love thee any more.” The maniac 
understood nothing of what she said, and did not even 
hear it. Clinging to the foot of her bed, she gave vent 
to fearful howls and cries, and her diseased imagination 
persuaded her that she was at this instant enduring the 
punishments and tortures which she had fantastically de¬ 
picted to Marcelle. 

The latter, after assuring herself, first of all, that her 
child was sleeping quietly in Fanchon’s care, busied her¬ 
self with Rose, who was distracted with fright and grief. 
It was the first time that Bricoline had given vent to the 
hatred accumulated during twelve years in her crushed 
heart. Once a week, at most, she cried and wept when 
her grandmother persisted in changing her garments. 
But those were the cries of a child, and these were the 
shrieks of a fury. She had never addressed a word to 
any one, and now, for the first time in twelve years, she 
had uttered threats. She had never struck any one, and 
she had just attempted to kill her mother. In short, for 
twelve years this mute victim of her parents’ avarice 
had kept her inexpressible suffering to herself, and they 


22 4 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


had accustomed themselves, with a sort of brutal indiffer¬ 
ence, to the deplorable spectacle. They were no longer 
afraid of her, they were tired of pitying her, they en¬ 
dured her presence as an inevitable misfortune ; and, if 
there were remorse in their hearts, it was not avowed, 
perhaps even to themselves. But there were necessary 
recurrent phases in the terrible disease which preyed upon 
her, and the time had come when her misery was dan¬ 
gerous to others. It was, at last, necessary to attend to 
it. M. Bricolin sat before his door, listening with a stu¬ 
pefied look to the coarse condolence of his family. 

“It is a great misfortune for you,” said one, “ and we 
have seen you bear it already too long. Such patience is 
beyond human strength, and you must finally decide to 
put this unfortunate girl in a mad-house.” 

“ She cannot be cured,” replied he, shaking his head. 
“ I have tried everything. It is impossible. Her disease 
is too severe ; she must die of it! ” 

u That might be the happiest thing for her. You see 
that she is in too pitiful a state here. But even if they 
could not cure her, you would be spared the pain of see¬ 
ing her, and taking care of her. She would be prevented 
from injuring you. If you do not take care, she will end 
by killing somebody, or her own self, before your eyes.” 

“That would be shocking ! But what will you have? 
I have told her mother so an hundred times, and yet 
she will not part from her. Trust me, she loves her 
still in her heart, and that may well be; mothers always 
feel something for their children, as it seems.” 

“ But, you may depend on it, she will be better off there 
than here. They are taken very good care of now. There 
are handsome establishments where they want for nothing. 
They are kept clean, allowed to work and be busy, and it 
is even said that they are amused, taken to mass, and per¬ 
mitted to hear music.” 

“ In that case they are happier than at home,” said M. 
Bricolin. After a moment’s reflection, he added, “and 
does all this cost a great deal?” 

Rose was deeply affected. She was the only one, with 
the exception of her grandmother, who had not become 


the miller of angibault. 


225 


insensible to the grief of poor Bricoline. If she avoided 
speaking of it, it was because she could not do so without 
accusing her parents of this moral filicide committed by 
them ; but twenty times a day she caught herself shudder¬ 
ing with indignation at hearing from her mother’s lips the 
selfish and avaricious maxims to which her sister had been 
sacrificed before her eyes. As soon as she recovered from 
her faintness, she wished to assist her grandmother in quiet¬ 
ing the maniac ; but Mme. Bricolin, fearing lest the spec¬ 
tacle should make too deep an impression, and having a 
vague instinct that excessive grief might prove contagious, 
even in its physical results, sent her away with the harsh¬ 
ness which belonged even to her best and kindest inten¬ 
tions. Rose was incensed at this refusal, and returned 
to her chamber, which she paced, for part of the night, 
in a state of great excitement, but abstaining from speech, 
for fear of expressing herself too strongly with regard to 
her parents, before Marcelle. 

Thus the night, which had opened with such exquisite 
delight, proved extremely painful to Mme. de Blanche- 
mont. The cries of the maniac ceased at intervals, and 
were then renewed more terribly, more fearfully. When 
they stopped, it was not by degrees and a gradual dim¬ 
inution, but, on the contrary, abruptly, in the midst of their 
greatest intensity, and as if a violent death had suddenly 
interrupted them. 

“ Would not one say they were murdering her?” cried 
Rose, pale, and hardly able to support herself as she 
walked the room. u Yes, it seems like an execution ! ” 

Marcelle would not tell her what frightful torments the 
maniac really believed herself enduring, and did endure, 
in her thoughts, at that moment. She concealed from her 
the interview she had had with her in the park. From 
time to time she went to see the sufferer. She found her 
stretched on the floor, her arms tightly clasped round the 
foot of her bed, and almost suffocated with exhaustion 
from screaming, but her eyes open, fixed, and her mind 
evidently in perpetual activity. Her grandmother knelt 
beside her, trying in vain to slip a pillow under her head, 

15 


226 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL T. 


or introduce a spoonful of a soothing potion into her con¬ 
tracted mouth. Mme. Bricolin, pale and motionless, sat 
opposite in an arm-chair, and her resolute and strongly 
furrowed countenance bore the traces of deep sorrow, 
which would not confess its sin, even to God. Chounette, 
standing in a corner, sobbed mechanically, without offer¬ 
ing her services, and without any one’s thinking of de¬ 
manding them. There was deep despondency in these 
three faces. The maniac alone, when not howling, 
seemed to revolve dark thoughts of hatred in her brain. 
There was a sound of snoring in the next room; but M. 
Bricolin’s heavy sleep was not undisturbed, and from time 
to time appeared to be broken by bad dreams. Farther 
still, beyond the opposite partition, Father Bricolin was 
heard coughing aud moaning; ignorant of the sufferings 
of others, the little strength that remained to him was 
not enough to support his own. 

At length, towards three in the morning, the violence 
of the storm seemed to overpower the maniac’s exhausted 
organs. She fell asleep on the ground, and they succeeded 
in putting her into bed without her perceiving it. It was 
doubtless long since she had known a moment’s repose, 
for her sleep was deep and heavy ; and everybody was 
enabled to rest, even Rose, to whom Mme. de Blanche- 
mont hastened with the favorable news. 

If Marcelle had not found this occasion to devote her¬ 
self to poor Rose, she would have repented the unlucky 
inspiration which had brought her to this habitation of 
avarice and misfortune. She would have hastened to 
seek another shelter than this, so totally un-beautiful, so 
disagreeable in prosperity, so forlorn in adversity. But 
to whatever new discomfort she might still be exposed, 
she resolved to stay while she could be of assistance to 
her young companion. Happily the morning was calm. 
Everybody slept till late, and Rose had not waked when 
Mme. de Blanchemont, scarcely awake herself, received 
from Paris, thanks to the rapidity of our present com¬ 
munications, the following answer to the letter which she 
had written to her mother-in-law three days before: 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


227 


Letter of the Countess of Blanchemont to her daughter-in-law , 
Marcelle , Baroness of Blanchemont. 

“ My Daughter, — May Providence, who sends you all 
this courage, mercifully preserve it to you ! Great as it 
is, I am not astonished at it from you. Do not praise 
mine. At my age one has not long to suffer ! At yours 
— happily there is no clear idea of the length and the 
difficulty of existence. My daughter, your plans are 
praiseworthy, excellent, and so much the wiser that they 
are necessary, — still more necessary than you imagine. 
We, too, my dear Marcelle, are ruined! and it may be 
that we can leave nothing as an inheritance to our beloved 
grandson. My unhappy son’s debts exceed all that you 
know, all that could have been foreseen. We shall tem¬ 
porize with the creditors; but we accept the responsi¬ 
bility, and thereby deprive Edward of the easy fortune 
which he might have expected at our decease. Bring 
him up, then, simply. Teach him to create his own re¬ 
sources by his talents, and to maintain his independence 
by the dignity with which he will support misfortune. 
When he is a man, we shall be no longer living. Let 
him respect the memory of the old grandparents who pre¬ 
ferred the honor of a gentleman to his pleasures, and 
whose only legacy to him will be a pure and unreproached 
name. The son of a bankrupt could have had none but 
dishonest luxury — the son of a guilty father will be, at 
least, under some obligation to those who have sheltered 
his life frpm public condemnation. 

u To-morrow, I will give you details; to-day, I am 
stricken by the discovery of this new abyss. I tell you 
in few words. I know that you can understand and en¬ 
dure everything. Adieu, my daughter ; I admire and love 
you.” 

“ Edward ! ” said Marcelle, covering her sleeping boy 
with kisses, a it was then written in heaven that thou 
shouldst have the glory, and perhaps the happiness, of not 
succeeding to the wealth and rank of thy fathers! So 
perish great fortunes, the work of ages, in one day! 
Thus the ancient masters of the world, drawn on by fa« 


228 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


tality yet more than by their own passions, are laden with 
the accomplishment of the decrees of that Divine wisdom 
which labors imperceptibly for the levelling of all mortal 
power! Mayst thou some day comprehend, oh, my 
child, that this law of Providence is kind to thee, since it 
throws thee among the sheep at Christ’s right hand, and 
separates thee from the goats at his left! My God, give 
me the wisdom and strength necessary to make of this 
child a man ! To make him a patrician, I should have 
had only to fold my arms, and let riches do their work. 
Now I need enlightenment and inspiration ! My God, 
my God ! Thou hast appointed me this task ! Thou wilt 
not abandon me ! ” 

“ Lemor,” she wrote an instant later, “my son is 
ruined, his family is ruined. My child is poor. He 
might have been unworthy and contemptible as a rich 
man. He must now be made courageous and noble as a 
poor one. Providence has reserved this mission for you. 
Now will you ever speak of abandoning me? Is not this 
child, who was an obstacle between us, a dear and sacred 
bond? Unless you should lose your love for me in a 
year, who now can oppose our happiness ? Take courage, 
my friend, and go! A year hence, you will find me in 
some cabin in the Black Valley, not far from the mill of 
Angibault.” 

Marcelle wrote these few lines with lofty emotion; and 
when her pen traced the words, “ Unless you should lose 
your love for me in a year,” an imperceptible smile gave 
an ineffable expression to her features. She enclosed her 
mother-in-law’s letter as explanation, and sealing the 
whole, put it in her pocket, thinking that it would not be 
long before she saw the miller, and perhaps Lemor him¬ 
self, in the peasant costume so becoming to him. 

The maniac slept all the day. She was feverish, but 
she had been so every day for twelve years, and her 
present exhaustion, which was an entirely new symptom, 
augured a favorable crisis. The physician who had been 
called from the town, and who was accustomed to seeing 
her, did not think her ill in comparison with her ordinary 
state. Rose, much reassured, /and restored to the sweet 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


229 


instincts of youth, slowly and very coquettislily dressed 
herself. She wished to be simple, not to startle her 
friend by making a display of her wealth before him — 
she wished to look well, to please him. So she sought 
out the most ingenious combinations, and succeeded in 
being modest as a rustic maiden, and beautiful as an 
angel of Paradise. In the midst of all her grief, she 
had trembled a little, without being willing to recognize 
the feeling, at the idea of losing this whole bright day. 
The pleasure of enrapturing for a whole day the man by 
whom one is beloved is not to be renounced without 
regret, at eighteen ; and this fear, unknown to herself, 
had mingled with the deep and sincere sorrow that she 
had felt for her sister. When she appeared at high mass, 
Louis had been long watching for her entrance. He was 
so placed as not to lose her an instant from his sight. 
She found herself accidentally by Grande-Marie, and he 
was deeply touched by seeing her put her pretty shawl 
under his mother’s knees, in spite of the good woman’s 
refusal. 

After the service, Rose skilfully took the arm of her 
grandmother, who was accustomed to stay by her old 
friend Grand’-Marie, whenever she had the pleasure of 
meeting her. This pleasure became more unfrequent 
every year, as age rendered the distance between Blanche- 
mont and Angibault more difficult for the two matrons to 
pass over. Mother Bricolin loved to talk. Continually 
“ snubbed,” as she said, by her daughter-in-law, she had 
a torrent of restrained words to pour into the bosom of 
the mill-dame, who, less communicative, but sincerely at¬ 
tached to the companion of her childhood, patiently heard 
and discriminately replied. 

In this way Rose hoped that she should escape Mme. 
Bricolin’s surveillance, and even the society of her other 
relations, all day, as her grandmother much preferred in¬ 
tercourse with the peasants, her equals, to that with the 
parvenus of her family. 

Beneath the old trees on the terrace, opposite a charm¬ 
ing view, the crowd of pretty girls pressed around the 


230 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


musicians, who, placed in pairs upon their scaffolds, very 
near one another, did battle with arms and lungs, in 
jealous competition, each one playing in his own key, and 
according to his own price, without any concern for the 
horrible discordance produced by this assemblage of ob¬ 
streperous instruments, each straining to be the one to 
overpower his neighbors in tune and measure. Amidst 
this musical chaos, each set of dancers remained inflexibly 
at its post, nevei* confounding the music for which it had 
paid with that shrieking two steps off, and never striking 
the foot to a false measure ; a wonderful training of ear 
and habit. The arbors resounded with no less heteroge¬ 
neous noises, some singing at the top of their voices, 
some earnestly talking over their affairs — these drinking 
friendship, and those threatening to fling their cups at 
each other’s heads, the whole enhanced by two indigenous 
policemen, passing with a fatherly air through the midst 
of the tumult, and sufficing, by their pressure, to restrain 
a population so peaceable as rarely to go from words to 
blows. 

The close circle formed around the first bourrees be¬ 
came yet more dense when the lovely Rose opened the 
dance with the tall miller. They were the handsomest 
couple of the fete, and their firm, light steps electrified 
all the others. The dame of the mill could not help re¬ 
marking this to Mother Bricolin, and she even added 
that it was a pity that two such good aud handsome 
young people were not intended for one another. 

“ As for me,” unhesitatingly replied the old grand¬ 
mother, “ I would make neither one nor two of it, if I 
were mistress, for I am sure that thy boy would make my 
granddaughter happier than she will ever be with another. 
I know very well that Grand-Louis loves her ; that may 
easily be seen, though he has the sense not to speak of it. 
But what wilt thou have, my poor Marie? Our people 
think of nothing but money. I was foolish enough to 
yield all my property to my son, and since that, they do 
not listen to me any more than if I were dead. If I had 
done differently, I could now dower Rose and marry her 




THE MILLER OF ANG 1 BAULT. 231 

as I pleased. But I have nothing left but feelings, and 
that kind of coin has no great currency in our house.” 

Notwithstanding all Rose’s address in passing from one 
group to another to avoid her mother, and always find 
herself either beside or opposite to her friend, Mme. Bric- 
olin and her party succeeded in joining her, and establish¬ 
ing themselves around her. Her cousins made her dance 
till she was tired, and Grand-Louis prudently withdrew, 
feeling that at the least quarrel he should be excited be¬ 
yond reason. They had tried to arouse him by saucy 
jests ; but the clear, bold glance of his large blue eyes, 
his disdainful composure, and great stature, easily re¬ 
strained the bravery of the Bricolins. When he was 
gone, they took their fill of abuse, and Rose was amazed 
to hear her sisters, her sisters-in-law, and her numerous 
cousins assert that this tall fellow looked like a fool, that 
he danced absurdly, that he appeared puffed up with pre¬ 
tension, and that none of them would dance with him for 
the world. Rose had self-love. This defect in her had 
been too assiduously cultivated not to conquer her some¬ 
times. Everything had beeu done to corrupt and repress 
her good, frank nature ; and if there had not been entire 
success, it was because there are incorruptible souls on 
which the spirit of evil has little hold. Nevertheless, she 
was pained at hearing her lover so obstinately and bitterly 
defamed. It vexed her ; she dared not promise herself to 
dance with him again, and declaring that she had ahead- 
ache, she returned to the farm, after vainly looking for 
Marcelle, whose influence would, she felt, have restored 
her courage and calmness. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


232 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE CABIN. 



foot of the terrace, as he had expressly advised her. 


had been waiting for the miller at the 


At the end of two hours, she saw him enter a closely 
shaded enclosure, and make a sign to her to follow him. 
After crossing one of the little peasant gardens, so ill 
kept, and consequently so pretty, green, and tufted, she 
entered, by slipping under the hedge, the court of one of 
the poorest cabins in the Black Valley. This court was 
twenty feet by six, shut in on one side by the low house, 
on the other by the garden, aud at each end by straw- 
covered sheds, which served to shelter a few hens, two 
sheep, and a goat, which comprise all the wealth of the 
rustic day-laborer, the man who earns his bread from day 
to day, and owns nothing, not even the wretched house 
that he inhabits, and the narrow enclosure that he tills. 
The interior of the house was as miserable as the en¬ 
trance, and Marcelle was touched at seeing by what ex¬ 
treme neatness womanly courage held the ground against 
the horrors of destitution. There was not a speck of dust 
on the uneven and stony soil which formed the floor ; the 
two or three poor pieces of furniture were bright and shin¬ 
ing, as if just varnished, and the few articles of earthen¬ 
ware, set up on boards against the wall, were carefully 
washed and arranged. With most of the peasants of the 
Black Valley, real and serious want is wisely and nobly 
concealed under these conscientious habits of order and 
neatness. Their rustic poverty is touching and pathetic. 


One would willingly live with these people. They in¬ 


spire no disgust, but interest, and a sort of respect. How 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


233 


little of the superfluity of the rich would be needed to 
extract from their lives all the bitterness hidden beneath 
this appearance of poetic calm ! 

This reflection struck Mareelle to the heart when Pau¬ 
line came to meet her, with one child in her arms and 
three more clinging to her apron, all fresh and clean, in 
their Sunday clothes. Pauline was still young and hand¬ 
some, although faded by the fatigues of maternity and 
abstinence from things most necessary to life. No wine, 
no meat, nor even vegetables, for a laboring and nursing 
woman ! Nevertheless, the children could have spared 
health to Marcelle’s, and a smile of kindness and confi¬ 
dence was upon the pale, thin lips of the mother. 

“ Come in and take a seat, madam,” said she, offering 
a straw chair covered with a coarse but clean napkin of 
tow-cloth. “ The gentleman whom you expect has been 
here already, and not finding you, has gone to take a 
turn in the assembly, but he will be back directly. If I 
could offer you something meanwhile ! Here are some 
freshly-gathered plums and some nuts. Come, Grand- 
Louis, do thou take some fruit from my garden too. I 
wish I could offer thee a glass of wine ! but we make 
none, thou knowest; and if it were not for thee, we 
should not always have bread.” 

“You are very poor?” said Mareelle, slipping a piece 
of gold into the pocket of the little girl, who was touch¬ 
ing, with astonishment, her black silk dress ; “ and Grand- 
Louis, who is not very rich himself, helps you ? ” 

“He?” answered Pauline; “he is the best-hearted 
man that the good God has made! Without him we 
should have died of cold and hunger these three win¬ 
ters past; but he gives us grain and wood ; he lends us 
his horses to go on pilgrimage when any of us are sick; 
he — ” 

“ There is quite enough to make me out a saint, Paul¬ 
ine,” said the miller, interrupting her. “ Truly, it is a 
great thing in me not to have deserted a good workman 
like thy husband ! ” 

“ A good workman ! ” said Pauline, shaking her head. 


234 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“ Poor dear man ! M. Bricolin tells everybody that he 
is lazy, because he is not strong/’ 

“ But he does what he can. Now I like good will in 
people, so I always employ him.” 

“ That is what makes M. Bricolin say that thou wilt 
never be rich, and showest poor judgment in employing 
sickly people.” 

“Well, and if nobody employs them, must they then 
die of hunger? Fine reasoning ! ” 

“ But, you know,” said Marcelle, sadly, “ the moral 
that M. Bricolin draws from it — the worse for them ! ” 

“ Mile. Rose is very good,” resumed Pauline. “ She 
would help the unfortunate, if she could. But the poor 
young lady can do nothing but secretly bring a piece of 
white bread to make broth for my little one. And that 
is against my will, for if her mother saw her! oh ! the 
rude woman ! But so goes the world. There are both 
bad and good people. Ah! there comes M. Tailland. 
You will not wait long.” 

“ Pauline, thou knowest what I said to thee,” said the 
miller, putting his finger on his lips. 

“Oh!” answered she, “I would sooner cut out my 
tongue than say a word.” 

“Because, thou seest — ” 

“Thou needst not explain the why and how, Grand- 
Louis ; it is enough that thou bidst me be silent. Come, 
children ! ” said she to her three young ones who were 
playing by the door ; “let us go see the assembly a little.” 

“The lady has put a gold piece in thy little girl’s 
pocket,” whispered Grand-Louis to her. “ It was not to 
purchase thy discretion, she well knows that thou dost not 
sell it; but it was because she saw thy need. Put it up, 
the child would lose it, and do not thank her ; the lady 
does not like compliments, since she gave thee this charity 
in secret.” 

M. Tailland was an honest man, very active for a Ber> 
richon, capable enough in business, only rather too fond 
of his ease. He loved good easy-cliairs, nice little colla¬ 
tions, long repasts, very hot coffee, and smooth roads for 
his cabriolet. He found none of these at the fete of 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 35 


Blanchemont. Meanwhile, though swearing a little 
against country amusements, he willingly stayed all day 
to be of service to some, and to transact business with 
others. In fifteen minutes’ conversation he demonstrated 
to Marcelle the possibility, and even the probability, of 
selling her estate at a high price. But as to selling 
quickly, aud receiving ready money, he was not of the 
miller’s opinion. u Nothing is done quickly with us,” he 
said. “ Still it would be madness not to try to rise fifty 
thousand francs upon Bricolin’s offer. I will make every 
effort. If I do not succeed in a month, I may counsel 
you, in your peculiar situation, to yield. But it is an 
hundred to one that before then, Bricolin, who has set 
his heart on being lord of Blanchemont, will compromise 
with you, if you can feign the rough but necessary qual¬ 
ity of great sharpness, with which I plainly see, madam, 
you are not too well provided. Now, sign this power of 
attorney I have brought you, aud 1 am off, for I do not 
wish to seem as if I were interfering in an underhand 
way with my legal brother Varin, whom your tenaut 
would have had you choose.” 

Graud-Louis accompanied the notary to the entrance, 
aud they disappeared in.different directions. It had been 
agreed that Marcelle should leave last and alone, after 
waiting a few minutes with the doors closed, so that if 
any inquisitive person observed their movements, the 
house might be thought deserted. 

G> O 

The door of the cabin was divided transversely into 
two parts, the upper of which served as a window for 
the entrance of light and air. Glazed windows separate 
from the door, were unknown in the older buildings of 
our peasauts. Pauline’s was built fifty years since, for 
people who w r ere well off; while now, the poorest, if they 
live in a new house, have sash windows, aud locks on 
their doors. Both parts of Pauline’s door were fastened 
inside and out by means of a wooden peg, fitting into a 
hole in the wall. 

When Marcelle was thus shut up, she found herself in 
perfect darkness, aud asked herself what could be the in¬ 
tellectual life of people who, too poor to have candles, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


236 

were compelled to go to bed at nightfall, and in winter 
to remain in darkness during the day to keep themselves 
from the cold. “ I said and believed that I was ruined,” 
thought she, “ because I was obliged to leave my gilded 
and silken rooms; but how many steps are there yet 
upon the ladder of social existence before coming to such 
poverty-stricken life as this, which scarcely differs from 
that of the animals ! No choice between enduring at all 
hours the intemperance of the seasous, and burying them¬ 
selves in the void nothingness of idleness, like the sheep 
in their fold! How can >this wretched family occupy 
themselves in the long winter evenings? In talking? 
And of what but their misery can they talk ? Ah ! 
Lemor is right, I am still too riph to dare to say before 
God that I have nothing with which to reproach myself.” 

Meanwhile, her eyes became accustomed to the obscu¬ 
rity. Through the ill-jointed door came a vague glim¬ 
mer, which grew brighter every instant. Suddenly, 
Marcelle started on perceiving that she was not alone in 
the cabin, but her next emotion was not fear — Lemor 
was beside her. He had hidden, unknown to every one, 
behind the serge curtains of the hearse-shaped bed. He 
had gathered courage to seek an interview with Marcelle, 
telling himself that it was the last, and that he must go 
afterwards. 

“ Since you are here,” said she, dissembling, with ten¬ 
der coquetry, the joy and emotion of her surprise, u I 
will tell you of what I was thinking. If we were re¬ 
duced to living in this cabin, would your love bear up 
against the troubles of the day and the inaction of the 
evening? Could you live deprived of books, or unable 
to make use of them for want of a drop of oil in the 
lamp, and of time in the hours of manual labor? After 
years of every sort of trial and privation, should you 
think this dwelling picturesque in its dilapidation, and 
the life of the poor poetic in its simplicity? ” 

“ I had precisely the same thoughts, Marcelle, and 
thought of asking you the same thing. Would you love 
me if I had drawn you into such poverty by my Utopian 
dreams? ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


237 


“ It seems to me that I should, Lemor.” 

u And why do you doubt me? Ah ! you are not sin¬ 
cere in your reply ! ” 

“I am not sincere?” said Marcelle, putting both her 
hands within those of Lemor. u My friend, I desire to 
be worthy of you, and this is why I restrain in myself 
the romantic extravagance which might lead even a 
woman of the world to atfirm and promise everything, 
without holding to anything, and saying to herself the 
next day, ‘ That was a pretty romance of mine yester¬ 
day ! ’ For myself, not a day passes that I do not strictly 
question my conscience, and I believe that I am sincere 
in answering you that I cannot imagine the situation, 
were it amid the horrors of a dungeon, where affliction 
could make me cease to love you ! ” 

“ O Marcelle ! dear and noble Marcelle! But why, 
then, did you doubt me? ” 

“ Because a man’s mind is different from ours. It is 
accustomed to other aliment than tenderness and solitude. 
A man must have activity, labor, and the hope of being 
useful, not only to his family, but to humanity.” 

“ Is it not also a duty freely to cast one’s self into this 
impotence of poverty?” 

“Are there, then, contradictory duties in our times? 
For power of mind is acquired only by the help of instruc¬ 
tion, and instruction is obtained only through the power 
of money, and yet all that is so enjoyed, acquired, or 
possessed, is to the detriment of him who can neither 
acquire nor possess celestial or material wealth.” 

u You attack me with my own weapons, Marcelle. 
Alas ! how shall I answer you, unless by saying that we 
do indeed live in an age of enormous aud inevitable in¬ 
consequence, where kind hearts desire the right, and are 
forced to accept the wrong ? Reasons are not wanting to 
prove, as all the happy do, that it is a duty to guard, 
instruct, and idealize one’s own existence, so as to render 
one’s self an active and powerful instrument in the service 
of mankind, and that to sacrifice, humble, and annihilate 
one’s self like the early Christians of the wilderness, is 
to neutralize a power, to quench a light that God has 


23 s 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


sent to men to teach and save them. But how arrogant 
is this reasoning, although, from the lips of certain en¬ 
lightened and sincere men, it appears just! It is the rea¬ 
soning of the aristocracy. Let us preserve our riches to 
give in alms, say also the devotees of your caste. It is 
we, say the princes of the Church, whom God has ap¬ 
pointed to enlighten men. It is we, cry the democratic 
bourgeois, and we alone, who should instruct the people 
in liberty. Yet what alms, what education, and what 
liberty have these, from their strength, given to the 
wretched! No! private charity has no power, the 
Church no will, modern liberalism no wisdom. I feel my 
spirit faint, and my heart sink in my bosom, when I think 
of the issue of the labyrinth in which we are involved ; 
we who seek for truth, and find falsehood and threats in 
the response of society. Marcelle, Marcelle, let us love 
one another, that the spirit of God abandon us not! ” 

“ Let us love ! ” cried Marcelle, throwing herself into 
her lover’s arms, “ and do not leave me, do not abandon 
me to my ignorance, Lemor, for thou hast lifted me from 
the narrow Catholic horizon where I tranquilly sought 
gny salvation, placing my confessor’s decision above that 
of Christ, and consoling myself for the impossibility of 
being a true Christian woman on this earth, by the say¬ 
ing of a priest— There are arrangements with heaven! 
Thou hast shown me a vaster sphere, and now I should 
not have an instant of repose if thou wert to desert me 
in this pale twilight dawn of truth.” 

“ But I know nothing myself,” answered Lemor, sor¬ 
rowfully. “ I am the offspring of the age. I do not 
possess the science of the future. I can only understand 
and comment upon the past. Floods of light passed 
before me, and like all the young and pure of the time, 
I rushed toward the the broad beams which revealed to 
us error, without giving us truth. I hate the wrong, I 
know not the right. I suffer, oh ! I suffer, Marcelle, and 
find only in thee the beautiful ideal which I would fain 
see rule the earth. Oh ! I love thee with all the love which 
men repulse from their midst, with all the devotion which 
society paralyzes and refuses to enlighten, with all the 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 39 


tenderness which I cannot communicate to others, with 
all the charity given me by God for thee and for them, 
but which thou alone understandest and feelest like my¬ 
self, when all others are insensible or disdainful. Let us 
love, then, without corrupting ourselves by mingling with 
those who triumph, and without degrading ourselves with 
those who submit. Let us love as two wanderers cross¬ 
ing the seas to conquer a new world, but knowing not 
whether they shall ever reach it. Let us love, not to be 
happy in a twofold selfishness , as love is called, but to 
suffer together, to pray together, together to seek what 
we two, poor birds lost in the storm, may do, day by day, 
to remove the plague which scatters our race, and to 
gather under our wings some fugitives crushed like our¬ 
selves beneath terror and sadness ! ” 

Lemor wept like a child as he pressed Marcelle to his 
heart. Marcelle, carried away by burning sympathy and 
enthusiastic respect, knelt before him as a daughter be¬ 
fore her father, saying: 

“ Save me, let me not perish! Thou wert here just 
now, thou heardst me consult a man of money upon af¬ 
fairs of money. I have been persuaded to struggle 
against poverty to save my son from ignorance and moral 
feebleness; if thou condemnest me, if thou provest to 
me that my son will be better and greater through pov¬ 
erty, I shall perhaps have the prodigious courage to let 
his body suffer to fortify his soul! ” 

“ O, Marcelle! ” said Lemor, obliging her to reseat 
herself, and kneeling in his turn before her, u thou hast the 
strength and the resolution of the greatest saints and 
proudest martyrs of the past. But where are the bap¬ 
tismal waters, to which we may bear thy child? the 
church of the poor is not yet builded ; they live dispersed, 
following various inspirations in the absence of all doc¬ 
trine ; some resigned through habit, some idolatrous 
through stupidity, here ferocious through vengeance, 
there still degraded by every abandoned and brutish vice. 
We cannot ask the first passing beggar to lay his hands 
on thy son and bless him. The beggar has suffered too 
much to be loving, and is, perhaps, a robber! Let us 


2AO 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


shelter thy boy from evil as far as possible, let us teach 
him the love of right and the need of insight. This 
generation may acquire that insight, and some day, per¬ 
haps, instruct us in it. Keep thy wealth ; how should I 
reproach thee with it, when I see that thy heart is en¬ 
tirely indifferent to it, and that thou regardest it but as a 
trust to be accounted for to heaven ? Keep the little gold 
which remains to thee. As the good miller said the other 
day, it is purified in some hands, as it is soiled and cor¬ 
rupted in others. Let us love, let us love ! and trust 
that God will enlighten us in His own time. And now, 
farewell, Marcelle ! I see that thou desirest this effort of 
courage from me. I will make it. To-morrow I will 
leave this sweet and lovely valley where, notwithstanding 
everything, I have lived two such happy days ! In a 
year I will return ; whether thou art in a palace or a hut, 
I see that I must bow at thy door, and there hang up for¬ 
ever my pilgrim’s staff.” 

Lemor departed, and, after a few moments, Marcelle 
quitted the cabin in her turn. But, careful as she was 
to conceal her retreat, she met face to face at the edge 
of the enclosure, an ill-looking boy, who, crouched behind 
the hedge, seemed awaiting her passage. He stared 
boldly at her, and then, as if delighted at having sur¬ 
prised and recognized her, ran off in the direction of a 
mill on the Vauvre at the other side of the way. Mar¬ 
celle did not think his ugly face quite unknown to her, 
and remembered, after some effort, that it was that of 
the pataclion who had lately led her astray in the Black 
Valley, and deserted her in a swamp. His red head 
and ill-omened green eye gave her some uneasiness, al¬ 
though she could not imagine what interest this lad could 
take in watching her proceedings. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


241 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE FETE. 

'T'HE miller had returned to the dance, hoping to find 
Rose free from what he disdainfully called her raft 
of cousins. But Rose was in a pet with her kinsfolk, 
with the dance, and somewhat with herself. She was 
remorseful for not feeling the courage to defy the taunts 
of her family. 

Her father had taken her aside that morning. 

u Rose,” said he, u thy mother has forbidden thee to 
dance with Grand-Louis of Angibault; now I forbid thee 
to affront him so. He is a respectable man, incapable 
of compromising thee; and besides, who could think of 
coupling your names together? It would be too unsuit¬ 
able ; and, in these days , it is not to be supposed that a 
peasant could think of a girl of thy rank. So dance 
with him: we should not humiliate our inferiors; some 
day or other one is sure to have need of them, and they 
should be attached when it costs nothing.” 

“ But if mamma scold me?” said Rose, at once happy 
in this permission, and hurt by the motive which dic¬ 
tated it. 

“ Thy mother will not say anything. I have been lec¬ 
turing her,” replied M. Bricolin. And, in fact, Mme. 
Bricolin did not say anything. She dared not disobey 
her lord and master, who connived at her hardness 
towards others, on the single condition that she should be 
pliant to him. But as he had not thought proper to initi¬ 
ate her into his views, and she was ignorant of the impor¬ 
tance which he attached to preserving the miller’s alliance 
in the diplomatic affair of acquiring the manor of Blanche- 
mont, she had contrived to elude his commands, and her 
16 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


242 

ironical condescension was more vexatious to Grand* 
Louis than open war. 

Annoyed at not seeing Rose, and depending upon the 
protection of her father, whom he had seen return to .the 
farm, Grand-Louis went there, seeking some pretext to 
talk with her, and discover the object of her thoughts. 
But he was much surprised to find in the court M. Bric- 
olin in deep conference with the miller of Blanchemont, 
whose mill was situated at the foot of the terrace, just 
opposite Pauline’s house. Now, a few days before, M. 
Bricolin had irrevocably quarrelled with this miller, who 
had for some time had his custom, and had, according 
to him, abominably reduced his measure of grain. 
Whether innocent or guilty, the said miller greatly re¬ 
gretted the loss of the custom of the farm, and swore ha¬ 
tred and revenge upon Grand-Louis. He waited only for 
an occasion to injure him, aud one had just presented it¬ 
self. The proprietor of his mill was the very M. Rave- 
lard to whom the Miller of Angibault had sold Marcelle’s 
carriage. Proud and pleased to try his new acquisition, 
and to display it to his retainers, M. Ravelard deter¬ 
mined to inspect his property at Blanchemont; but having 
no servant who knew how to drive two-in-hand, he en¬ 
gaged the talents of the red-headed patachon, who was a 
hack-driver by trade, and boasted a perfect acquaintance 
with the roads of the Black Valley. M. Ravelard had 
arrived, not without trouble, but at least without acci¬ 
dent, on the morning of the fete. He sent his horses to 
his mill, but did not have his carriage put up, that every¬ 
body might observe it, and know to whom it belonged. 

The sight of this fine carriage was already very dis¬ 
agreeable to M. Bricolin, who detested M. Ravelard, his 
rival in the territorial wealth of the district. He went down 
to the road by the Vauvre to examine and criticise it. 
Granehon, the miller, Grand-Louis’s rival, entered into 
conversation with him without seeming to remember their 
quarrel, and did not fail to worry and taunt him with hints 
that his master was better able than he to set up his car¬ 
riage. Thereupon M. Bricolin began to abuse the carriage, 
to say that it was an old prefect’s coach made over, a crazy 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 43 


wagon of a thing, and might not, perhaps, leave the Black 
Valley in as spruce condition as it had entered it. Gran- 
chon defended his landlord’s discernment and the quality 
of his purchase, and finally said that it had been Mme. 
de Blanchemont’s, and that Grand-Louis had been the 
agent in the sale. M. Bricolin, surprised and scanda¬ 
lized, listened to the details of the affair, and learned that 
the Miller of Angibault had decided M. Ravelard to se¬ 
cure this luxury, by telling him that it would enrage M. 
Bricolin. The fact was unhappily too true. M. Rav- 
elard had talked with the patachon all the way in coming. 
The latter, skilled in eliciting a good gratuity for himself, 
and seeing the bourgeois intoxicated with pride in his new 
vehicle, had spoken to him of nothing else. Nothing 
could be handsomer, lighter, more 'pleasant to drive , than 
this carriage. It must have cost at least four thousand 
francs, and was worth twice as much in the country. M. 
Ravelard, delicately flattered by this artless admiration, 
had confided all the circumstances of the bargain to his 
driver, and he had gossiped about them with Granchon 
the miller, while breakfasting at the mill of Blanche- 
mont. Perceiving the hatred and envy felt there towards 
Grand-Louis, he set things in their worst light, as much 
for the pleasure of prating and being listened to as on 
account of his irritation against Grand-Louis for his un¬ 
merciful raillery the day of his adventure in the marsh. 

A few moments after M. Bricolin had left Granchon 
with a bent brow and haughty air, this same Granchon 
saw Grand-Louis and Marcello enter Pauline’s cabin. He 
was struck by this seemingly mysterious rendezvous, and 
racked his brain to find therein a new occasion of injury 
to his enemy. He placed the patachon in ambush, and 
after an hour he learned that Grand-Louis, an unknown, 
who seemed to be a new mill-boy engaged in his service, 
the young lady of Blanchemont, and M. Tailland, the 
notary, had been shut up in deep conference at Pauline’s ; 
that each had left separately, and taking useless precau¬ 
tions against observation ; finally, that some conspiracy 
was hatching there, some money affair, doubtless, since 
the notary was concerned in it. Granchon was not un- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


244 

aware that this honest notary was a bugbear and terror 
to Bricolin. Half guessing the truth, he hastened oblig¬ 
ingly to inform Bricolin of all these details, and to com¬ 
pliment him upon the manner in which his favorite, the 
Miller of Angibault, served his interests. This was the 
narration which Grand-Louis interrupted on entering the 
court of the farm. 

Under any other circumstances our honest miller would 
have gone right up to his accuser, and forced him to an 
explanation. But seeing Bricolin abruptly turn his back 
upon him, and Granchon slyly watch him with a taunting 
look, he uneasily wondered what serious business -could 
have brought together two men, who, the evening before, 
ne se seraient pas donne un coup de bonnet derriere Veg- 
lise , that is to say, would not have bowed had they met 
face to face in the narrowest street in the town. Grand- 
Louis did not know the subject of their conversation, nor 
even whether he were the object of this affected aside; 
but his conscience pricked him. He had tried to outwit 
M. Bricolin. Instead of scornfully repulsing him when 
he had offered him money to serve his interest to the in¬ 
jury of Marcelle’s, he had pretended to bargain with 
him for one or two bourrees with Rose ; he had given him 
hope, and to avenge himself for his insulting offers, he 
had deceived him. 

“ I deserve no better,” thought he, “ than to have my 
fine mine countermined. This is what comes of tricking ! 
My mother always told me it was a country custom which 
would bring bad luck, and I have not had sense enough 
to keep from it. If I had shown myself an honest man, 
as I am at heart, to this cursed farmer, he would have 
hated, but respected, and perhaps feared, me, more than 
he will now, if he discover that I have used cunning 
words with him. Grand-Louis, my friend, thou hast 
been a fool! All bad actions are stupid — mayst thou 
not drink thine ! ” 

Tormented, intimidated, and displeased with himself, 
he went to the terrace to join his mother, and propose to 
take her back to Angibault. Vespers were over, and she 
had already gone with some neighbors, leaving word with 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


245 

Jean for his master to amuse himself awhile longer, but 
not stay too late. 

Grand-Louis could not avail himself of this permis¬ 
sion. A prey to a thousand anxieties, he wandered about 
till sunset without any enjoyment, waiting till Rose should 
reappear, or till her father should come to inform him of 
his intentions. 

The chief amusement of the villagers on a fete day is 
towards night. The gendarmes, tired of doing nothing, 
begin to mount their horses; the people from the town 
and suburbs climb into their various vehicles and depart, 
to avoid passing the bad roads by night. The pedlers 
buckle up their packs, and the curate goes to sup merrily 
with some brother come to see the dancing, perhaps with 
a sigh at not being able to take part in the sinful pleas¬ 
ure. The natives thus remain in possession of the ground 
with such of the musicians as have not made a good day, 
and recompense themselves by prolonging it. Now all 
are acquainted, and once in action, they repay themselves 
for having been scattered, criticised, and perhaps laughed 
at, by the foreigners; for in the Black Valley all are 
called foreigners beyond the distance of a league round. 
Then all the little population of the place begins to dance, 
even old kinsfolk and friends, who had been timidly with¬ 
held by broad daylight; even the fat bar-maid of the 
cabaret, who has been hard at work since morning serv¬ 
ing her customers, and who tucks up her smoky aprou, 
and frisks with superannuated charms; even the little 
hunch-backed tailor, at whose embrace the girls would 
have blushed in the daylight, and who says, grinning 
from ear to ear, that all cats are gray at night . 

Rose, tired of pouting, felt a new desire for amuse¬ 
ment when all her relations had gone. Before return¬ 
ing to the fete, she wished to see the maniac, who had 
slept all day in Chounette’s care. She softly entered the 
room, and found her awake, sitting upon her bed, her 
manner pensive, and almost calm. For the first time in 
a long while Rose dared to touch her hand, and ask her 
how she did, and for the first time in twelve years the 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


H 6 

maniac did not withdraw her hand and turn away dis« 
displeased. 

“ My dear sister, my sweet Bricoline,” repeated Rose, 
emboldened and rejoiced, u dost thou feel better? ” 

“I feel well,” replied the maniac, shortly. “ I have 
found, on awaking, what I have been looking for these 
fifty-four years.” 

“ And what wast thou looking for, my darling?” 

“ I was looking for tenderness ! ” auswered Bricoline, 
in a strange voice, and mysteriously putting her finger to 
her lips. “ I have sought it everywhere : in the' old cha¬ 
teau, in the garden, by the fountain, in the hollow way; 
above all, in the warren! But it is not there, Rose, and 
thou seekest it in vain thyself. They have hidden it in a 
great subterranean place, which is under this house, and 
it will be found under its ruins. This came to me in 
sleep, for while I sleep I always think and seek. Be 
easy, Rose, and let me alone! To-night, no later than 
to-night, I shall find tenderness, and will share it with 
thee. Then we shall be rich! In these days of ours , as 
the gendarme, who is placed here to guard us, says, we 
are so poor that nobody will have us. But to-morrow, 
Rose, no later than to-morrow, we will both be married; 
I to Paul, who has become king of Algiers, and thou to 
that man who brings the sacks of grain, and always looks 
at thee. I will make him my first minister, and it shall 
be his business to have this gendarme, who is always 
saying the same thing, and has made us suffer so much, 
burnt at a slow fire. But hush ! speak to no one of this. 
It is a great secret, and the fate of the African war de¬ 
pends upon it.” 

Rose was much frightened at this fantastic address, and 
dared say no more to her sister, for fear of exciting her 
yet further. She would not leave her till the physician, 
who was expected at this hour, should come, and she 
even forgot her desire to dauce, and remained pensively 
near the maniac’s bed, her head drooping, her hands 
folded in her lap, and her heart filled with deep sadness. 
The contrast was striking between the two sisters, one so 
horribly wrecked by suffering, so repulsive in her self- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


247 


neglect, the other so carefully adorned, so brilliant with 
freshness and beauty. And yet there was a resemblance 
in their features, and in the bosom of each smouldered, 
in different degree, a thwarted love, as they call it in 
this country — both were sad and grave. The least de¬ 
pressed of the two was the madwoman, who revolved 
wild projects and hopes in her distracted brain. 

The physician came punctually. He examined the pa¬ 
tient with the kind of apathy felt by a man who sees noth¬ 
ing to hope, and nothing to attempt in a case long since 
desperate. 

u The pulse is the same,” said he ; u there is no change.” 

“ Pardon me, doctor,” said Rose, drawing him to one 
side. “ There is a change since yesterday evening. She 
screams, sleeps, speaks differently from usual. I assure 
you that there is a revolution in her system. This 
evening, she endeavors to collect her ideas and to ex¬ 
press them, although they are the ideas of delirium; is 
this worse or better than her ordinary depression ? What 
do you think of it?” 

“ I think nothing,” answered the doctor. u Every¬ 
thing may be expected in such a disease, and nothing can 
be foreseen. Your family has been wrong in not making 
the sacrifices necessary to send her to one of the estab¬ 
lishments where the faculty are particularly occupied 
with exceptional cases. For myself, I never boasted of 
being able to cure her, and I think that the greatest skill 
could not answer for it now. It is too late. I only de¬ 
sire that her mania of silence and solitude may not alter 
into fury. Avoid contradicting her, and do not make her 
talk, lest her thoughts fix themselves upon one object.” 

“Alas ! ” said Rose, “ I dare not gainsay you, and yet 
it is so dreadful to live always alone, a horror to every¬ 
body ! When at last she seems to seek some sympathy, 
some pity, must this need of affection be met by frozen 
silence ? Do you know what she just told me? She said 
that ever since she became crazy (she thinks it is fifty- 
four years) she has been seeking for tenderness. Poor 
girl, she has certainly never found it! ” 

“ And did she say this in reasonable terms? ” 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UIT. 


248 

“Alas, no! She uttered shocking ideas and frightful 
menaces at the same time.” 

“ You see that these outpourings of delirium are more 
dangerous than salutary. Trust me, let her alone, and 
if she wishes to go out, prevent any constraint being put 
upon her habits. It is the only way to avoid a return 
of yesterday evening’s crisis.” 

Rose sorrowfully obeyed; but Marcelle, who desired 
the retirement of her chamber to write, and saw her 
companion sad and listless, besought her to go and amuse 
herself, promising that at the first cry, or symptom of 
agitation in her sister, she would send little Fanchon to 
inform her. Besides, Mme. Bricolin was also busied in 
the house, and her grandmother urged Rose to come and 
dance one bourree more in her presence before the close 
of the assembly. 

“ Remember,” said she, u that I count every fete day 
now, thinking each year that I may not see the next. 
Let me see thee dance and amuse thyself to-day, or I shall 
have a sad thought left in my mind, and I shall fancy 
that will bring me bad luck.” 

Rose had not taken three steps on the terrace before 
Grand-Louis was at her side. 

u Mile. Rose,” said he, “ has your father said anything 
to you against me?” 

“No. On the contrary, he almost commanded me this 
morning to dance with you.” 

“ But—since this morning?” 

“ I have scarcely seen him ; he has not spoken to me. 
He seems much occupied with his business.” 

“ Come, Louis,” said the grandmother, “ thou dost not 
ask Rose to dance! Dost thou not see that she would 
like to ? ” 

“Is it true, Mile. Rose?” said the miller, taking the 
young girl’s hand; “ should you fancy dancing again this 
evening with me ? ” 

“ I should like to dance,” answered she, with piquant 
nonchalance. 

“ If with any other than me,” said Grand-Louis, press* 


THE MILLER OF ANG/BAULT. 


249 

mg Rose’s arm against his agitated heart, u speak : I will 
go and find him ! ” 

u That means, perhaps, that you could wish it were not 
you?” replied the roguish girl, stopping. 

“You think so?” cried the miller, transported with love. 
“ Ah well! you shall see if my joints are stiffened ! ” 

And he drew, almost carried her to the midst of the 
dance, where in another moment, both forgetful of their 
uneasiness and their troubles, they lightly grazed the turf, 
holding each the other’s hand in a little closer pressure 
than the bourree absolutely required. 

But this rapturous bourree was not finished when M. 
Bricolin, who had waited for this moment to render the 
affront more cutting before all the village, rushed into the 
very midst of the dancers, and with a gesture interrupt¬ 
ing the bagpipe, which would have drowned his voice — 

“ My daughter! ” cried he, taking Rose by the arm, 
“ you are a modest and respectable girl. Never dance 
again with people whom you do not know ! ” 

“ Mile. Rose is dancing with me, M. Bricolin,” replied 
Grand-Louis, much excited. 

“ That is the reason that I forbid her, as I forbid 
you, yourself, ever to take the liberty of asking her, or 
of addressing a word to her, or ever crossing my thresh¬ 
old, or — ” * 

The farmer’s thundering voice was choked by this ex¬ 
cess of eloquence, and as he stammered in his rage, 
Grand-Louis interrupted him. 

“ M. Bricolin,” said he, “ you have the right, as a father, 
to control your daughter ; you have the right to forbid me 
your house ; but you have no right to affront me in public 
before giving me an explanation in private.” 

“ I have a right to do everything I please,” retorted 
Bricolin, exasperated, “ and to tell a rascal just what I 
think of him ! ” 

“To whom do you say that, M. Bricolin?” asked 
Grand-Louis, his eyes flashing fire ; for although he had 
said to himself, at the beginning of this scene, “Now for 
it! I have my deserts, to a certain point! ” it was impos¬ 
sible for him patiently to submit to insult. 


250 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“ I say it to whomsoever I think proper,” answered 
Bricolin, with a majestic air, but in reality suddenly in¬ 
timidated. 

“ If you are talking to your cap, it matters little to 
me,” returned Grand-Louis, endeavoring to compose 
himself. 

“Just look at this madman ! ” replied Bricolin, shelter¬ 
ing himself in the inquisitive group that crowded around 
him; “ would not you say that he was about to insult 
me, because I forbid him to speak to my daughter? Have 
I not the right to do so ? ” 

“Yes, yes, you have the entire right,” said the miller, 
forcing himself to turn away, “ but not without giving 
me a reason; and I will come to ask you for one when 
you are cool, and I too.” 

“Dost thou threaten me, wretch?” cried Bricolin, 
alarmed, and calling the assembly to witness ; “ he threat¬ 
ens me! ” added he, in an emphatic tone, and as if 
to claim the assistance of his friends and servants against 
a dangerous man. 

“ God forbid, M. Bricolin ! ” said Grand-Louis, shrug¬ 
ging his shoulders ; “ you do not hear me — ” 

“ And I will not hear thee. I have nothing to hear 
from an ungrateful and false friend. Yes,” added he, 
seeing that the miller felt more sorrow than anger at this 
speech, “ I tell thee that thou art a false friend—a Judas ! ” 

“ A Judas? no, for I am not a Jew, M. Bricolin.” 

“ I know nothing of that! ” returned the farmer, becom¬ 
ing bolder as his adversary seemed to give way. 

“ Ah ! gently, if you please,” replied Grand-Louis, in 
a tone which closed his mouth. “ No big words ; I re¬ 
spect your age, I respect your mother, and your daugh¬ 
ter too, perhaps, more than yourself; but I will not 
answer for myself if you go too far. I might reply, and 
show that if I have done a little wrong, you have done a 
great one. Trust me, let us be silent, M. Bricolin, this 
might lead us further than we should like. I will come 
to talk with you, and you will hear me.” 

“ Thou shalt not come! If thou comest I will turn 
thee out with shame,” cried M. Bricolin, when he saw 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


251 

the miller, who was striding away, out of hearing; 
“ Thou art nothing but a wretch, a deceiver, a con¬ 
spirator.’* 

Rose, who, pale and frozeu with terror, had remained 
till now motionless on her father’s arm, was seized with 
an energetic impulse of which she would not have believed 
herself capable an instant before. 

u Papa,” said she, drawing him forcibly from the 
crowd, “ you are angry, and do not think what you are 
saying. Explanations should be made at home, and not 
before everybody. You are treating me very inconsider¬ 
ately, and are not very careful of my reputation.” 

“ Thou, thou ! ” said the farmer, astonished, and ap¬ 
parently conquered by his daughter’s courage. “ There 
is nothing against thee in all this, nothing to hurt thy rep¬ 
utation. I permitted thee to dance with this wretch, it 
seemed all fair and natural to me, and to everybody else. 
I did not know that this fellow was a villain, a traitor, 
a — ” 

“ All you will, father, but this is quite enough,” said 
Rose, shaking his arm with the force of a spoiled child. 
And she succeeded in drawing him towards the farm. 


2.5 2 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE TWO SISTERS. 

"A/TME. BRICOLIN did not expect to see her family 
return so soon. Her husband had left her at home 
without telling her the outrage which he purposed. He 
would not have the majesty of his public performance 
injured by her shrill outcries. So that when she saw him 
enter, scarlet with anger, panting, growling between his 
teeth, and dragging on his arm Rose, also much excited 
and distressed, and her eyes swollen with irrepressible 
tears, while her grandmother pattered after them, her 
hands clasped in consternation, she drew back with sur¬ 
prise ; then, raising her candle to their faces — 

u What is to pay?” said she; “what has happened 
now ? 

“ That my son is much in the wrong, and talks un¬ 
reasonably,” answered Mother Bricolin, letting herself 
fall into a chair. 

“Yes, yes, it is the same story as yesterday evening,” 
said the farmer, recovering part of his anger with the 
sight of his wife. “Enough said! Is supper ready? 
Come, Rose, art thou hungry?” 

“ No, father,” said Rose, dryly. 

“ Is it I who have taken away thy appetite?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“Is that a reproach?” 

“Yes, father, I own that it is.” 

“Come now, Rose,” said the farmer, who was ready 
to treat his daughter with all possible condescension, but 
saw her for the first time somewhat rebellious towards 
him, “ thy behavior does not quite suit me. Dost thou 
know what thy ill-humor might make me think? Thou 
wouldst not hear, I hope? ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 53 

u Speak, speak, father ! Say what you think ; if you 
are mistaken, it is my duty to justify myself.” 

“ I say, my daughter, that it would be ill done for thee 
to take the part of this workman of a miller, on whose 
back I will break my rattan some one of these fine morn¬ 
ings, if he prowls around my house.” 

u Father,” replied Rose with warmth, “ I will venture 
to tell you, should you break your stick over my own 
back, that all this is cruel and unjust, that I am mortified 
by being instrumental to your public vengeance, as if I 
were responsible for all the wrongs that have or have not 
been committed towards you ; that, in short, it all pains 
me, and wounds my grandmother, as you plainly see.” 

“ Yes, yes, it troubles me and vexes me,” said Mother 
Bricolin, in the quick, short tone which nevertheless con¬ 
cealed great gentleness and kindness (aud it was in this 
quickness of speech and tenderness of heart that Rose re¬ 
sembled her). “My heart bleeds,” continued the old 
woman, “to hear such hard words given to an honest 
lad, whom I love like one of my own children, and the 
more that for sixty years I have been friends with his 
mother and all his family — ay, and a family of fine peo¬ 
ple ! And Grand-Louis will bring no dishonor upon 
them ! ” 

“Oho ! so it is on this fine gentleman’s account,” said 
Mme. Bricolin to her husband, “ that your mother is scold¬ 
ing, and your daughter in tears? Look at her there, all 
weeping ! Yes, indeed ! You have brought things to a 
pretty pass, M. Bricolin, with your friendship for this 
great booby ! You are well paid for it! See if it be not 
a shame to have your mother and daughter take his part 
against you, and cry about it as if—as if—Blessed 
saints ! I will not say what, I should blush ! ” 

“ Say anything, mother ! Speak ! ” cried Rose, completely 
irritated. “ Since you have so well begun to mortify me 
to-day, refuse yourselves nothing! I atn quite ready se¬ 
riously and sincerely to answer any questions upon my 
sentiments toward Grand-Louis.” 

“And what are your sentiments, mademoiselle?” said 


2 54 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


the enraged farmer, in his roughest voice ; “ tell us at 
once, so please you, since your tongue itches.” • 

u My sentiments are those of a sister and a friend! ” 
answered Rose; “ and no one shall make me change 
them.” 

“ A sister ! a miller’s sister ! ” said M. Bricolin, chuck¬ 
ling, and imitating Rose’s tone ; kk a friend ! a peasant’s 
friend ! Fine language, and very suitable for a girl like 
you! Thunder crush me if the young girls are not all 
crazy, nowadays. Rose, you talk as one of the people 
might in a mad-house ! ” 

At this moment, piercing shrieks were heard from the 
maniac’s apartment; Mme. Bricolin started, and Rose 
turned pale as death. 

u Listen, father ! ” said she, seizing M. Bricolin’s arm ; 
“ hear that, and then dare to laugh at the insanity of 
young girls! Jest upon mad-houses, you who seem to 
forget that a girl of our rank may love a man without 
fortune, enough to fall into a state worse than death! ” 

“ Then she confesses it, she proclaims it! ” cried Mme. 
Bricolin, divided between rage and despair ; “ she loves 
this laborer, and threatens us to be like her sister! ” 

“ Rose ! Rose ! ” cried M. Bricolin, shocked, u be si¬ 
lent ! and you, Thibaude,” he added imperiously, “ go 
and see Bricoline.” 

Mme. Bricolin left the room. Rose remained stand¬ 
ing, her face convulsed, frightened at what she had just 
said to her father. 

“ My daughter, thou art ill,” said M. Bricolin, much 
moved. “ Thou must recover thy senses.” 

“ Yes, you are right, father, I am ill,” said Rose, 
bursting into tears, and throwing herself into her father’s 
arms. 

M. Bricolin had been alarmed, but it was impossible 
to melt him. He embraced Rose as one would coax a 
child, not soothe an adored daughter. He was proud of her 
beauty, her wit, and still more of the wealth with which 
he would fain crown her. He would have preferred 
bringing her into the world ugly and stupid, but exciting 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


255 

envy by her riches, than perfect and poor, and inspiring 
pity. • 

u Little one,” said he to her, u thou hast not com¬ 
mon sense this evening. Go to thy bed, and do not 
think of this miller and your fine friendships. His sister 
nursed thee, to be sure ; but, zounds ! she was well paid. 
This lad was thy playmate when you were children, to be 
sure again; but he was our servant, and only did his 
duty in amusing thee. It is my pleasure to dismiss him 
to-day because he has played me a vile trick ; it is thy 
duty to think me right.” 

“ Oh, father! ” said Rose, still weeping in the farmer’s 
arms, u you will revoke that command. You will permit 
him to justify himself, for he is not guilty, it is impossible, 
and you will not compel me to mortify my old friend, the 
son of the good mill-dame who loves me so ! ” 

“ Rose, all this begins to be very disagreeable to me,” 
replied Bricolin, extricating himself from his daughter’s 
caresses. “ It is too absurd that a family affair should be 
made of the expulsion of such a vagabond. Come, prithee, 
grant me peace! Hear how thy poor sister screams, and 
do not concern thyself so much with a stranger, when dis¬ 
tress is in our household.” 

Oh, if you think I do not hear my sister’s voice,” said 
Rose, with a fearful expression, “ if you think that her cries 
speak nothing to my soul, you are mistaken, father ! I do 
indeed hear them, and think of them only too much !” 

Rose went out tottering, but as she turned towards her 
sister’s chamber, they heard her fall upon the corridor 
floor. The two women, terrified, ran to her. She had 
fainted, and lay like one dead. 

They hastily carried her into her chamber, where Mar- 
celle was writing, and waiting for her, little suspecting the 
storm that her poor friend had passed through. She lav¬ 
ished the tenderest cares upon her, and was the only one 
who had the presence of mind to send to the village and 
see if the physician were yet there. He came, and found 
the young girl in a violent nervous paroxysm. Her limbs 
were stiffened, her teeth clenched, and her lips livid. She 
was restored to consciousness through his exertions, but 


256 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


her pulse passed from its fearful pause to a burning energy. 
Her large black eyes shone with fever, and she talked hur¬ 
riedly without knowing to whom she spoke. Struck by 
hearing her several times successively pronounce the name 
of Grand-Louis, Marcelle contrived to send away her fright¬ 
ened parents, and to remain alone with her, while the phy¬ 
sician went to the elder sister, who began to exhibit the 
same symptoms of fury as the evening before. 

“Dear Rose,” said Marcelle, pressing her companion 
to her heart, “ you have some trouble that causes your 
illness. Be calm, to-morrow you shall tell me all about 
it, and I will do anything in the world to relieve your 
suffering. Who knows but I may find some way?” 

“ Ah ! you are an angel! ” answered Rose, falling 
upon her neck. “ But you can do nothing for me. All 
is lost, all is broken. Louis is driven from the house ; 
my father protected him this morniug, and hates and 
curses him this evening. I am, indeed, too wretched!” 

“ You really love him, then ? ” said Marcelle, astonished. 

“Do I love him?” cried Rose. “ Can I help loving 
him? And when did you doubt it?” 

“ Even yesterday, Rose, you would not confess it.” 

“It is possible I might never have confessed it if they 
had not persecuted me, driven me to extremity, as they 
have to-day. Conceive it,” said she, speaking rapidly, 
and holding her burning brow with both hands, “ they 
tried to humiliate him before me, to degrade him in my 
eyes because he is poor, and dares love me ! This morn¬ 
ing, when they overpowered him with their mockeries, I 
was cowardly ; I was angry, and dared not show it. I 
let them belie him without venturing to defend him ; I al¬ 
most blushed for him. And then I came home with a 
violent headache, asking myself if I could ever have the 
strength to brave such insults for his sake. I imagined 
that I would love him no more, and then it seemed to me 
that I was going to die, and that this house, which al¬ 
ways looked beautiful to me. because I was brought up 
here and was happy in it, became dark, dirty, forlorn and 
ugly, as it doubtless looks to you. I thought myself in a 
prison ; and this evening, when my poor sister told me in 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


her madness that our father was a gendarme who kept 
us in sight to inflict suffering on us, for an instant I, too, 
was as if mad, and seemed to see all that my sister saw. 
Oh ! how that pained me ! And when I recovered my 
reason, I felt indeed that without my poor Louis, life 
would have nothing agreeable or endurable for me. It 
is through my love for him that I have met all my troubles 
gayly till to-day : my mother’s dreadful temper, my father’s 
insensibility, the burden of our wealth, which creates only 
misery and jealousy around us, and the spectacle of the 
terrible calamities by which my sister and my grand¬ 
father have been long stricken under my eyes. All this 
was hideous to me when I saw myself alone, not daring 
to love, and forced to endure it all without the consola¬ 
tion of being beloved by a noble, beautiful, excellent 
being, whose attachment indemnified me for everything. 
Oh ! it is impossible ! I love him ; I will try no longer 
to overcome it. But it will kill me, see you, Mine. Mar- 
celle; for they have driven him away, and, much as I 
may suffer, they will be pitiless. I can never see him 
more; if I speak with him secretly, they will scold me 
and mock me till my brain will turn — My poor head 
that I thought so well and strong, and that aches now so 
that it seems as if it would break—Oh, I will not let 
myself become like my sister, do not fear for me, my dear 
Mme. Marcelle ! I will sooner kill myself if I feel that 
her malady gains on me — but it will not gain, will it? — 
Yet when I hear her cry, it rends my heart, it runs like 
ice and fire through my veins. A sister, a poor sister! 
her blood is the same as mine, and her anguish is felt in 
my body as in my soul! Oh, heaven! madam! O 
my God! do you hear her ? Hark ! though they may 
shut the doors, I hear her still, I hear her always ! — how 
she suffers, how she loves, how she calls ! my sister, oh ! 
my poor darling, who was so beautiful, so sensible, gen¬ 
tle and gay, and now she howls like a wild beast — ” 

The poor girl’s voice was lost in sobs, and her weep¬ 
ing, long repressed by a violent effort of her will, grad¬ 
ually became inarticulate cries, then piercing shrieks. 
Her face changed, her wandering eyes grew sunken and 
i7 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


25S 

dim, her clenched hands grasped Marcelle’s arms so as 
to bruise them, and she finally hid her face in the pillow, 
uttering heart-rending cries, and imitating, by a fatal aud 
irresistible instinct, the screams of her unfortunate sister. 

Startled by this lamentable echo, the family left the 
elder for the younger sister. The physician came, and 
learning what had taken place, did not attribute this vio¬ 
lent nervous attack simply to the effect produced upon 
Rose’s imagination by the insanity of her sister. He 
succeeded in soothing her, but when he was again alone 
with the Bricolins, he spoke to them with some severity 
on the subject. u You have been long imprudent,” said 
he to them, “ to bring up this young girl in the presence 
of so melancholy a spectacle. It would be judicious to 
withdraw her from it, to send the elder to an asylum for 
the insane, and to marry the younger, in order to dissi¬ 
pate the melancholy which might easily grow upon her.” 

“ How now, M. Lavergne! ” said Mme. Bricolin ; 
“ certainly, we only desire to marry her. She has had 
plenty of chances, and, only to-day, here was her cousin 
Honore, who is an excellent match ; he is sure to have a 
hundred thousand crowns. If she were willing, he and 
we would ask no better ; but she will not hear it spoken 
of; she refuses all whom we propose to her! ” 

“ Perhaps because you do not propose the one who 
pleases her,” replied the doctor. “ I know nothing about 
it, and do not interfere in your affairs ; but you are well 
aware of the cause of the ot her’s misfortune, and I strongly 
advise you to take a different course with this one.” 

“Oh! this one!” said M. Bricolin, “it would be too 
great a pity, such a handsome girl, eh ! doctor?” 

“The other was handsome too ; you do not remember 
it!” 

“ But in short, sir,” said Mme. Bricolin, more irritated 
than impressed by the doctor’s frankness, “ do you really 
think that my daughter’s brain is diseased? Her sister’s 
misfortune was an accident, arising from her grief at the 
death of her lover — ” 

“ Whom you did not allow her to marry ! ” 

“ Sir, you know nothing about it. Perhaps we might 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 59 


have allowed her, if we had known it would turn out so 
badly. But Rose, sir, is a girl of good constitution, aud 
very rational, and, thank God, this is not a hereditary 
disease with us. There never was anybody mad that 1 
knew of in the Bricolin or Thibault families ! My own 
head is always cool and clear; my other daughters are 
like me ; I cannot conceive why Rose should not be as 
well made as the rest.” 

u You will think as you please,” returned the physi¬ 
cian, ‘ w but I declare to you that you play a bold game if 
ever you thwart your youngest daughter’s inclinations. 
She has a flue temperament, but nervous, and very sim¬ 
ilar to her sister’s. Besides, insanity, if not hereditary, 
is contagious — ” 

“ Oh ! we will send the other to an asylum, we will 
decide upon that at any cost,” said Mine. Bricolin. 

“ And Rose must not be vexed, dost hear, wife?” said 
the farmer, pouring down glass after glass of wine to dull 
the sense of his domestic troubles. “ There are actors 
at La Chatre, we must take her to see the play. We 
will buy her a new gown ; two, if need be. Zounds ! wt 
have enough to refuse her nothing ! — ” 

M. Bricolin was interrupted by Mme. de BlanchemoL 
who desired a private interview with him. 


a6o 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE CONTRACT. 

1V/T BRICOLIN,” said Marcelle, following the farmer 
into a sort of dark and disorderly closet, where he 
kept his papers heaped up pell-mell, with various agricul¬ 
tural implements and specimens of seeds, u are you pre¬ 
pared to listen to me calmly and gently ? ” 

The farmer had drunk deeply, to fortify himself before 
going to insult Grand-Louis on the terrace. On return¬ 
ing, he had drunk still more to compose and refresh him¬ 
self. In the third place he had drunk to dissipate the 
melancholy that hung over the house, and drive away the 
dark thoughts that beset him. His blue-flowered china 
mug, which always stood on the kitchen table, usually 
served him as support or stimulus against the first weight 
of intoxication. When he found himself alone with the 
lady of Blanchemont, and deprived of the assistance of 
his white wine, he was ill at ease, mechanically felt upon 
his writing-table for the glass which was not there, and, 
endeavoring to offer a chair, threw down two. Marcelle 
then perceived that his legs, his red face, his tongue and 
his brain were all under the influence of wine, and not¬ 
withstanding the disgust with which this new feature in 
his character inspired her, she resolved to enter into an 
open explanation with him, remembering the proverb in 
vino veritas. 

Seeing that he had scarcely heard her first words, she 
returned to the attack. 

“M. Bricolin,” said she, “I had the pleasure of ask¬ 
ing you whether you were prepared to listen with com¬ 
posure aud kindness to a rather delicate question I have 
to put to you.” 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


261 


“What is it, madam?” replied the farmer, in an un¬ 
gracious, but inefficient tone. Much as he was vexed 
with Marcelle, he was too much stupefied to testify it. 

“ It is this, M. Bricolin,” returned she ; “ that you have 
forbidden the Miller of Angibault your house, and I 
should like to know the cause of your displeasure with 
him.” 

Bricolin was confounded at this frank manner of broach¬ 
ing the subject. There was a bold sincerity in Marcelle’s 
bearing which always constrained him, and especially 
uow, when he had not the free exercise of his faculties. 
Controlled by a will superior to his own, he did the con¬ 
trary of what he would have done if sober—he told the 
truth. 

“ You know, madam,” he answered, “ the cause of 
my displeasure. I have no need to tell you.” 

“It is I, then?” said Mme. de Blanchemont. 

“You? no. I do not accuse you. You simply attend 
to your own interests, as I do to mine — but I call it a 
rascally trick to pretend to be my friend, and to go at the 
same time and give you advice against me. Hear it, 
use it, pay well for it, you will not fail to get it. But as 
for me, I turn out the enemy who injures me with you. 
There now ! And so much the worse for those who do not 
like it! I am master in my own house; for in short, see 
you, Mme. de Blanchemont, I tell you, each one for him¬ 
self. Your interests are your own, my interests are my 
own. A rascal is a rascal. In these days of ours, every 
one thinks of himself. I am master in my house and in 
my family, you have your interests as I have mine; as 
for advice against me, it will not be missing, I tell you — ” 

And M. Bricolin thus went on during ten minutes, 
tediously repeating Jmnself without perceiving it, and 
losing at each word the remembrance of having said the 
same thing an hundred times before. 

Marcelle, who had rarely been near a drunken person, 
and never talked with one, listened to him with astonish¬ 
ment, questioning within herself whether he had not sud¬ 
denly become idiotic, and thinking with terror that the 
fate of Rose and her lover depended on a man who was 


262 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


hard and obstinate when sober, and deaf and stupid when 
his rudeness was softened by wine. She let him maun¬ 
der through the same ignoble commonplaces for some 
time, then, seeing that this might last till he fell asleep in 
his chair, she attempted to sober him by abruptly striking 
the most tender chord. 

“ Let us see, M. Bricolin,” said she, interrupting him, 
44 you positively wish to buy Blanchemont? And if X 
should accept the price you offer me, would you still be 
angry ? ” 

Bricolin made an effort to raise his bloodshot lids, and 
look steadily at Marcelle, who, on her part, looked firmly 
and attentively at him. Gradually the farmer’s eye 
brightened, his heavy and swollen face appeared to gather 
solidity, and it seemed as if a veil fell from before his 
features. He rose and took two or three turns through 
the room, as if to prove his legs aud collect his ideas. 
He feared it was all a dream. When he again sat down 
opposite Marcelle, his attitude was firm, and his com¬ 
plexion almost pale. 

“Pardon me, my lady baroness,” said he, 44 what did 
you do me the honor to say to me ? ” 

44 I say,” resumed Marcelle, 44 that I am disposed to 
give you my estate for 250,000 francs, if — ” 

“ If what?” asked Bricolin, in a hasty voice, and with 
a lynx glance. 

44 If you will promise me not to make your daughter 
unhappy.” 

44 My daughter ! What has my daughter to do with 
all this ? ” 

44 Your daughter loves the Miller of Angibault; she 
is very sick; she may lose her reason by it, like her sis¬ 
ter. Do you hear, do you understand, M. Bricolin ? ” 

44 1 hear, but I understand nothing. I see that my 
daughter has taken some love fancy into her head. It 
will pass off in a day or two, as it has come. But what 
great interest do you take in my daughter?” 

44 What matters it to you? Since you do not under¬ 
stand how one may feel friendship and compassion for a 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 263 

lovely and suffering girl, at least you comprehend the ad¬ 
vantages of being proprietor of Blanchemont ? ” 

“This is a jest, my lady baroness. You are mocking 
me. You have spoken to-day with my greatest enemy, 
Tailland the notary, who would certainly have counselled 
you to keep me up to the mark.” 

“ Without any animosity toward you, he gave me the 
information necessary in my position. Now, I know that 
I could very soon find a purchaser, and, as you say, keep 
you up to the mark.” 

“And it was the Miller of Angibault who procured 
you this good counsellor all in secret from me ! ” 

“ What do you know about it ? You may be mistaken. 
Besides, all explanation on this subject is useless ; if I am 
satisfied with your offer, what matters the rest to you?” 

“But the rest —the rest — must mv daughter marry a 
miller?” 

“ Your father was one before taking the place of far 
mer with my family.” 

“ But he made money, and in these days I am in a sit¬ 
uation to have a son-in-law who would assist me in buy¬ 
ing your estate.” 

“ In buying it at 300,000 francs, and perhaps more? ” 

“Is it, then, an absolute condition? You wish this 
miller to marry my daughter? What interest have you 
in it?” 

“ I told you —friendship, the pleasure of making oth¬ 
ers happy: things which appear fanciful to you ; but 
each one according to his character.” 

“ I know very well that your husband, the late baron, 
would have given ten thousand francs for a bad horse, 
or forty thousand for a bad girl, when the fancy took 
him — the nobility have such caprices — and one can con¬ 
ceive it, it was for himself, and gave him pleasure ; but 
making a sacrifice purely for the pleasure of others, of 
people who have no claim on you, whom you scarcely 
know — ” 

“ Then you advise me not to do it?” 

“ I advise you,” said Bricolin, hastily, frightened at 


264 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT 


his awkwardness, “to do what you please ! There is no 
disputing tastes and ideas ; but yet! — ” 

“ But yet you distrust me, it is plain. Do you not 
believe me sincere in my proposition ? ” 

“Faith, madam ! what security should I have? This 
is a queenly fancy, which might leave you at any mo¬ 
ment.” 

“ For that reason you ought to be speedy in taking me 
at my word.” 

“ Zounds ! she is right! ” said Bricolin to himself; “ in 
her madness she is cooler than I. Let us see, my lady 
baroness,” said he aloud, u what security would you give 
me?” 

“ A written engagement.” 

“ Signed?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And I must promise to give my daughter in marriage 
to your protege ? ” 

“ You will give me first your word of honor.” 

“My word of honor? And then? ” 

“ And then you will go immediately, in presence of 
your mother, your wife and me, to give it to Rose.” 

“My word of honor? Is Rose, then, desperately in 
love ? ” 

“Do you finally consent?” 

“ If it needs only that to please the child !” 

“ It needs more.” 

“What then?” 

“ You must keep your word.” 

The farmer changed countenance. 

“Keep my word — keep my word!” said he; “do 
you doubt it, then ? ” 

“ No more than you doubt mine ; but as you require a 
written bond from me, so do I require one from you.” 

“ What sort of bond?” 

“ A promise of marriage, which I will myself draw 
up, and which shall be signed by Rose and yourself.” 

“ And if, after all this, Rose should claim a dowry 
from me ? ” 

“ She shall renounce it by the bond.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


265 

u This would be famously economical,” thought the 
larmer. “ That devilish dowry which I might any day 
have been called upon for, might have hindered my buy¬ 
ing Blanchemont. To give no dowry, and have Blanche- 
mont for 250,000 francs, is a profit of 100,000 francs. 
Come, it is not worth while to haggle. Then, too, if 
Rose went crazy, we must give up all thought of a son- 
in-law — and pay a doctor, too, by the year. — And 
then again, it is too sad ; it would give me too much pain 
to see her growing ugly and dirty like her sister. Two 
crazy daughters would be a disgrace to us. The girl 
will have a queer establishment, but the manor of 
Blanchemont will gild over many things. We shall be 
laughed at on one side, but envied on the other. Come! 
I will be a kind father. It is not a bad business.” 

“ My lady baroness,” said he, aloud, “ suppose we see 
how such a writing could be turned! It is an odd bar¬ 
gain, however, and I have never seen anything to pat¬ 
tern it by.” 

“ Nor I,” answered Mme. deBlanchemont, “ and Ido 
not know whether such are to be found in modern legis¬ 
lation. But what matter? With good sense and integ¬ 
rity, you know a deed may be drawn up more valid than 
any lawyer’s.” 

“ That is daily seen : a will, for example. Even the 
stamped paper is unnecessary. But I have some here. I 
always keep some. One should always have it at hand.” 

“Let me make a rough draft upon common paper, M. 
Bricolin, and do you make another. Then we can com¬ 
pare them, discuss them if necessary, and copy upon 
stamped paper.” 

“ Do so, do so, madam ! ” replied Bricolin, who scarcely 
knew how to write. “You are quicker than I, you will 
turn it better than I could, and then we will see.” 

While Marcelle was writing, M. Bricolin went to a 
jug of water in a corner, and, without being observed, 
rested it upon a shelf, stooped and swallowed a large 
quantity. “ One needs his brains in such a case,” 
thought he; “ it seems to me that mine are all right 


266 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


again, but it is a good thing in business to have cold 
water in one’s blood, it makes one prudent and cautious.” 

Marcelle, inspired by feeling, and gifted, besides, with 
great precision of thought in her generous resolutions, 
drew up a writing which a lawyer might have confessed 
a masterpiece of clearness, although it was written in 
good French, did not contain a word of consecrated 
slang, and bore the impress of the most admirable good 
faith. When Bricolin heard it read, he was struck with 
the precision of a deed which, although not of his own 
dictation, had a value and consequences which he fully 
comprehended. 

“ The devil is in the women ! ” thought he. “ It may 
well be said, that when they chance to understand busi¬ 
ness, they go far beyond the sharpest of us! I know 
that when I consult my wife, she always perceives every¬ 
thing that can leave open a door to my advantage or det¬ 
riment. I wish she were here! But she would delay 
us with her objections. We will see about it when 
it comes to signing. Yet who could have believed that 
this young lady, who is a novel reader, a republican, and 
an enthusiast, was capable of carrying out her mad freak 
so wisely? My brain turns with amazement. Let 11 s 
have another glass of water. Pah! how bad it is! 
How much good wine I must drink after the bargain, to 
settle my stomach! ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 267 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

AN AFTER-THOUGHT. 

/ T''HAT appears to me unobjectionable,” said M. Bric- 
olin, after attentively listening to a second and third 
reading of the deed, and following with his eyes, which 
grew wider and brighter at every line, the text which Mar- 
celle held before them. “ There is only one little thing 
that I would wish to correct: the price, Mine. Marcelle ; 
it is truly too dear by 20,000 francs. I did not reflect at 
first how much injury my daughter’s marriage with this 
miller might do me. People will say that I am ruined, 
since I establish her so miserably. It will destroy my 
credit. And then the lad has nothing to buy her wedding 
presents with. There is another outlay of 8,000 or 
10,000 francs, which will come upon me. Rose caunot 
do without a handsome trousseau—I am sure she de¬ 
pends upon it! ” 

“ And I am sure she does not depend on it,” said Mar¬ 
celle. “ Listen, M. Bricolin, she is crying! Do you 
hear her ? ” 

“I do not hear her, madam ; I think you are mis¬ 
taken.” 

“I am not mistaken,” said Marcelle, opening the door ; 
“ she suffers, she sobs, and her sister screams! How, 
sir, do you hesitate? You are offered the means of en¬ 
riching yourself, and, at the same time, of restoring her 
health, her reason, perhaps her life; and at such a mo¬ 
ment, you think of bettering your bargain ! Verily ! ” 
added she, with indignation, “ you are not a man; you 
have no feeling! Beware, lest I retract, and abandon 
you to the calamities which weigh upon your family as a 
punishment for your avarice ! ” 


2 6S 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT . 


The only thing in this vehement sally that the farmer 
clearly understood, was the threat of breaking off the 
bargain. 

“Come, madam,” said he, “give me 10,000 francs, 
and all is settled.” 

“Adieu ! ” said Marcelle. “ I am going to see Rose. 
Make your reflections, mine are made ; I will make no 
change in my conditions. I have a son ; and I do not 
forget that, while thinking of others, I must not sacrifice 
him! ” 

“ Pray sit down again, Mme. Marcelle, and let us leave 
poor Rose to sleep. She is so ill! ” 

“ Then go yourself to see her ! ” said Marcelle, warmly, 
“and convince yourself that she is not asleep. Perhaps 
the sight of her suffering will make you remember that 
you are her father.” 

“ I do remember it,” said Bricolin, alarmed by the 
thought that Marcelle might change her mind if he gave 
her time for reflection. “ Come, madam, let us finish up 
this deed, that we may cure Rose with the news ! ” 

“I hope, sir, that you will plainly and simply give her 
your consent, and that she may never know that I bought 
it from you.” 

“You do not wish her to know that it is a condition 
between us ? I am content! Then it is unnecessary for 
her to sign the writing.” 

“ Pardon me ; she shall sign it without well under¬ 
standing it. It shall be a sort of dower that I give to 
her betrothed.” 

“ That comes to the same thing. But it is all one to 
me; Rose has sense enough to understand that I would 
not marry her so poorly without making sure of some fu¬ 
ture advantage from it. But the payment, Mme. Mar¬ 
celle ; do you insist upon having it cash? ” 

“You told me that you were prepared.” 

“ Doubtless I am ! I have just sold a large farm, 
which was too far from my eye, and I received a week 
ago the entire payment for it, which is a rare thing with 
us ; but it was a great lord who bought it, and such peo- 


the miller of angibault. 


269 


pie always have full coffers. It was a peer of France, 
mj lord duke of * * *, who wanted to make a park of 
a certain shape, and as my land precisely suited him, I 
sold it dear, as was just! ” 

u No matter; you have the money? ” 

u I have it in my pocket-book, in fine bank-notes,” said 
Bricolin, lowering his voice. “ I will show them to yarn, 
to make you quite easy.” 

And after having bolted the doors, he drew from his 
girdle a huge pocket-book of greasy, shining leather, in 
which were stuffed a quantity of notes upon the Bank of 
France. Astonished at the indifference with which Mar¬ 
cello counted them, “ Oh ! ” said he, u it is frightful to 
have so much money at once! Happily there are no 
more chauffeurs , and one can venture to keep it unin¬ 
vested for a few days. I carry it upon my person all 
day, and at night I put jt under my pillow, and sleep upon 
it. I am so anxious to be rid of it! If I had not had 
immediate business with you, I should have bought an 
iron box to keep it in, for I am no such fool as to confide 
it to notaries or bankers! So I wish we might conclude 
our bargain this evening, that I need no longer guard this 
treasure.” 

“ I hope, indeed, that we may conclude it at once,” 
said Marcelle. 

“ How, then, without any consultation? and my wife? 
and my notary ? ” 

“ Your wife is here ; as for your notary, if you send 
for him, I must also summon mine.” 

“ Trust me, madam, these devilish notaries will ruin 
everything ! I am as wise as they, and you also, for our 
deed is good, and if we have it registered, it will be dev¬ 
ilishly expensive.” 

“ Then let us do without this form. I will sell to you, 
as they say, from hand to hand.” 

“ Such an important bargain ! it makes one tremble ! 
But this is only a promise, after all; suppose we sign it? ” 

“ This promise is as good as a deed. I am ready to 
sign it. Go and find your wife.” 

“It must be so,” said Bricolin to himself. “ If only 


270 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


we do not lose time, and the wind does not change dur¬ 
ing the hour’s dispute that Thibaude will perhaps keep 
up. You are going to see Rose, Mme. Marceller Do 
not tell her anything yet.” 

“ J shall take good care not to do so ! But you permit 
me to give her some hope of your consent?” 

“ As things stand now, that may be,” answered Bric- 
olin, sagaciously, considering that the sight of Rose and 
her tears was the best means of holding Marcelle firm to 
her generous intentions. 

M. Bricolin found his wife in a very different disposi¬ 
tion from what he had foreseen. Mme. Bricolin was 
harsh and shrewish ; but although more grasping than 
her husband in the details of life, she was perhaps less 
avaricious as to the whole; sharper in words, more un¬ 
feeling in appearance, yet a good occasional impulse was 
less foreign to her character than to his. Besides, she 
was a woman ; and the maternal sentiment, though hid¬ 
den under rnde forms, was still living in her bosom. 

44 M. Bricolin,” said she, coming to meet him, and 
irawing him into the kitchen, where a wretched candle 
was faintly burning, “ thou findest me in trouble. Rose 
is worse than thou thickest. She does nothing but cry 
-ind sob, as if she were distracted. She is in love with 
this miller ; it is a punishment from Heaven for our sins 
But the mischief is done, her heart is lost, and she is just 
as her sister was when she began to break up. Then 
again, the state of the other grows worse, and threatens 
to become intolerable. She has tried to break the doors, 
and the doctor has just ordered us to let her go out and 
wander about the old chateau and the warren, as usual. 
He says that she is used to being alone, and in constant 
motion, and that if we keep her shut up with people about 
her, she will become furious. But I tremble lest she 
should kill herself! She seems so evil-minded to-night! 
She, who never speaks, has been telling us every horrible 
thing in the world. My stomach actually turned to hear 
her. It is abominable to live so ! And then to think 
that a cross in love was the cause of all! Yet we brought 
up all our daughters equally well. The others have mar- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


271 


ried as we wished ; they do us honor ; they are rich, and 
have sense enough to think themselves happy, although 
their husbands are not so very sentimental. But the eld¬ 
est and youngest are iron-headed ; and since we have been 
so unlucky as not to understand what would ruin the one, 
we ought to have the prudence not to thwart the other. 
I had rather she had never been born than to have her 
marry this miller! But she will have him, and as I had 
rather see her dead than crazed, we must do the best we 
can. So I tell thee, Monsieur Bricolin, I give my con¬ 
sent, and thou must needs give thine. I have just told 
Rose that if she absolutely desires to marry the man, I 
would not prevent her. That seemed to calm her, though 
she did not look as if she understood or believed me. 
Thou must go, too, and tell her the same thing.” 

“ How things happen! ” cried Bricolin, delighted. 
“ Here, wife, read this bit of writing, and tell me if any¬ 
thing is wanting.” 

u I fall from the clouds! ” said the dame, when she 
had perused the paper. And, after various exclama¬ 
tions, she collected all the energies of her will to read it 
again with the keen attention of an attorney. “ This 
writing is good for thee,” said she, u good as a decision 
in court. Thou hast no need of consultation, M. Bric¬ 
olin ; thou hast only to sign. It is clear profit, clear good 
fortune ! Our business is settled, and Rose will be con¬ 
tent. They may well say that the good God always re¬ 
wards a good intention. I had decided to give her to her 
lover for nothing, and here we are well paid ! Sign, sign, 
my old man, and pay. That will be carrying the deed 
into execution, and there can be no drawing back.” 

“ Pay already? so on a sudden ! upon a scrap of paper 
which is not even witnessed ? ” 

“ Pay, I tell thee! and have the banns published to¬ 
morrow morning.” 

“ But if the child should listen to reason! Perhaps 
she will be well to-morrow, and will consent to marry 
somebody else, if we talk to her, and if thou knowest 
how to coax her. Then people might say that such a 


272 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


deed was folly in me, a piece of stupidity which could not 
bind my daughter — ” 

u Well! then the sale would be annulled.” 

“ Not so sure ! one can always go to law.” 

“ Thou wouldst lose ! ” 

“ Not so sure again ! Besides, what matter is it? The 
sale would be suspended. A lawsuit may be made very 
long. Thou knowest that Mine, de Blanchemout cannot 
wait. She will be forced to compromise.” 

u Bah! such stories make one ill-spoken of, Monsieur' 
Bricolin. One loses honor and credit. It is always 
profitable to act squarely.” 

“Well, well, we shall see, Thibaude ! Go and tell thy 
daughter that it is settled. Perhaps when she feels her¬ 
self no longer thwarted, she will not care so much for her 
Grand-Louis ; for it seemed to me that it was simply the 
miff between her and me which troubled her head so. 
But say, now! the miller has not ill-manoeuvred in this 
affair ! He has found means to secure the friendship and 
protection of this lady, I don’t know how — the lad is no 
fool! ” 

u I shall detest him all my life ! ” replied the farmer’s 
wife; “ but it is all one. Provided that Rose will not 
become like her sister, I will hold my tongue, and 
content myself with turning: a cold shoulder to her hus¬ 
band.” 

“ Oh ! her husband, her husband ! Pie is not so yet! ” 

“ All the same, Bricolin. It is a settled thing. Go 
sign.” 

“ And thou? thou must sign too ! ” 

“ I am ready.” 

Mme. Bricolin deliberately entered her daughter’s 
room, where Marcelle was awaiting her, and signed, with 
her husband, upon a corner of the bureau. 

When this was done, Bricolin, with a look of savage 
triumph, said in a low voice to his wife: 

“ Thibaude ! the sale is good, and the condition is null! 
Thou didst not know that, thou who thinkest thou know¬ 
est everything! ” 

Rose was still feverish, and suffering from violent 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


2 73 


headache ; but her nerves were more calm since the ma¬ 
niac was out of the house and her cries were no longer 
heard. When Marcelle had signed, she gave the pen to 
her young friend, who was with difficulty made to under¬ 
stand what was going on ; but when she comprehended 
it, she burst into tears, and threw herself affectionately 
into the arms of her father, her mother, and her friend, 
whispering to the latter — 

“Divine Marcelle, I accept it as a loan. Some day I 
shall be rich enough to repay it to your son.” 

The grandmother was the only one of the family who 
appreciated the nobleness of Marcelle’s conduct. She 
knelt before her, and embraced her knees in silence. 

“And now,” said Marcelle, in an under voice, to the 
old woman, “ it is not very late, only ten o’clock! 
Grand-Louis may be even now upon the terrace, and 
besides, it is not so very far from here to Angibault. 
Suppose that some one were sent for him? I dare not 
propose it, but he might be brought here, as if by chance ; 
and once here, he could easily be informed of his happi¬ 
ness.” 

“ I will see to it! ” cried the old woman, “ if I should 
have to go myself to the mill! I shall be as active as at 
fifteen, for that! ” 

She went, in fact, to the village, but did not find the 
miller. She would have despatched one of the farm- 
boys for him, but they were all incapable of stirring from 
their drunken sleep in their beds, or at the cabaret. Lit¬ 
tle Fanchon was too much of a coward to go alone at 
night, and, besides, it would have been inhuman to expose 
the child on a fete-day evening, to encounters with all 
sorts of people. Mother Bri colin went to and fro upon 
the almost deserted terrace, seeking some one sufficiently 
sober and prudent to intrust with her commission, when 
her eyes fell upon Uncle Cadoche, coming out of the 
church porch, where he had been muttering a final 
prayer. 


18 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


274 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


THE PATACHON. 


OU are walking late, Mme. Bricolin,” said the meu- 



-*• dicant; “you seem to be looking for some one? 
Your granddaughter went home some time ago. Her 
papa vexed her preciously to-day ! ” 

“ All good, all good, Cadoche,” answered the old wo¬ 
man ; “I have no money with me. But I believe they 
gave thee some to-day, at our house.” 

“I ask nothing of you, my day is completed. I have 
drank three glasses to-night, and walk only the straighter. 
Look you, Mother Bricolin, neither your husband, nor the 
big gentleman, your son, can carry drink as I do at my 
age. I wish you good-evening. I am going over to Angi- 
bault to sleep.” 

“To Angibault? My old Cadoche, art thou going to 
Angibault ? ” 

“ Do you wonder at that? My house is two long 
leagues from here, towards Jeu-les-Bois. There is no 
need of my tiring myself. I am going to pass the night 
with my nephew the miller; they always receive me 
well there, and do not put me in the straw, as at other 
houses ; yours, for example, where you nevertheless are 
rich enough still, notwithstanding the chauffeurs! At 
my nephew’s there is a bed for me in the mill, and they 
are not afraid of my setting it on fire, — as at your 
house, where there is always fire in the head, if not at 
the feet! ” 

These allusions to the catastrophe of which her hus¬ 
band had been the victim, sent a shudder through Mother 
Bricolin’s old blood ; but she made an effort to think only 
of her granddaughter, and of better days. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


275 

“ So thou art going to Grand-Louis’s, then? ” said she 
to the old man. 

u To be sure, to the best of my nephews, my true 
nephew, my future heir ! ” 

u See here, then, Cadoche ; since thou hast thy senses 
about thee, and art such a friend to Grand-Louis, thou 
canst render him a famous service. I have some press¬ 
ing business with him, and he must come immediately to 
speak with me. Tell him so, and that I will wait for 
him at the great yard gate. Let him take his mare, he 
will come the quicker.’ , 

“His mare? he has none. She has been stolen.” 

“ Let him come all the same, no matter how! the 
business is very important to him.” 

“And what is this business?” 

“ Good, now ! he would have it explained this minute ! 
Cadoche, there shall be a new twenty-sous piece for thee, 
if thou comest for it to-morrow morning.” 

“ At what hour?” 

“ When thou wilt.” 

“ I will come at seven. Be ready, because I do not 
like to wait.” 

“ Go, then ! ” 

“ I am going. I shall not be three-quarters of an hour. 
Ah, my legs are better than your husband’s, Mother Bric- 
olin, and yet I am ten years the oldest.” 

The beggar started, indeed, with a firm step. He was 
near Angibault, when, in a narrow part of the road, he 
was overtaken by M. Ravelard’s carriage, driven in full 
splendor by the red-headed and evil-minded patachon, 
who scorned to cry “take care!” and urged his horses 
upon him. 

It is beneath the dignity of the peasant of Berri ever 
to turn aside for a vehicle, whatever warning he receive, 
or whatever difficulty there may be in turning out for 
him. Uncle Cadoche was prouder than any other man 
whomsoever in the country. Accustomed, with droll 
gravity, to treat all those to whom he extended a suppli¬ 
cating hand as his unquestioned inferiors, he now affected 
to slackeu his pace, and to keep the middle of the road, 


276 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


although he felt the hot breath of the horses upon his 
shoulder. “ Make way, stupid! ” at length cried the 
patachon, accompanying his words with a heavy swing 
of his whip around the old man’s head. 

The mendicant turned, and, seizing the heads of the 
horses, made them recoil so suddenly, that the carriage 
was nearly overturned in the ditch. Then began a 
desperate struggle between him and the furious pat¬ 
achon, the latter striking with his whip, and uttering 
a thousand imprecations, the former guarding himself 
from his attempts by stooping under the horses’ heads, 
and continually pressing them by forcibly shaking the 
bits, now forcing them back, now obliged to fall back be¬ 
fore them. M. Ravelard assumed, at first, the air of a 
grandee, as became a man driving for the first time in 
his own carriage. He himself swore at the insolence 
of the interruption; but his good Berrichon heart soon 
overpowering the pride of the parvenu, when he saw 
that the old man was madly braving real danger, he 
leant from the carriage and said to the patachon, “ Take 
care, take care not to hurt this poor man ! ” 

It was too late ; the horses, maddened by being beaten 
on the one side and restrained on the other, made a furi¬ 
ous bound, and overthrew Cadoche. Thanks to the won¬ 
derful instinct of these generous animals, they cleared 
his body without touching it, but the two wheels of the 
vehicle passed over his breast. 

The road was lonely and dark; too dark for M. Rav¬ 
elard to distinguish their wearer among the dingy rags 
piled on the earth behind his rapidly retreating carriage. 
The patachon himself had lost ail control over the horses, 
and, at first, the bourgeois thought of nothing but the 
danger of an overturn ; when the animals were quieted, 
the beggar was left far behind. 

“ I hope that you did not knock him down? ” said M. 
Ravelard to his driver, who was still trembling with fear 
and anger. 

“ No, no,” said the patachon, whether sure of what he 
affirmed or not. u He fell to one side. It was his fault, 
the old rascal! but the horses never touched him, and he 


TI 1 E MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 77 

was not hurt, for he made no noise. He will get off 
with the fright, and it will be a good lesson to him.” 

“But suppose we went back to see?” said M. Rav- 
elard. 

“Oh! no, no, sir, these people will make you a law¬ 
suit for a scratch. He would think nothing of pretend¬ 
ing that his head was broken, to make you give him 
plenty of money. I came across such a fellow once who 
had the patience to stay forty days in bed to make my 
citizen indemnify him for forty days’ loss of work. And 
he was no more sick than I.” 

“ Such people are very cunning! ” said M. Ravelard. 
“ Nevertheless, I had rather never have a carriage than 
to run over any one whosoever. Another time, my boy, 
you must stop short rather than have such a dispute ; it 
is dangerous.” 

The patachon, who wished to get rid of the conse¬ 
quences of the affair, whipped up his horses to get the 
quicker away. He was not free from terror and re¬ 
morse, and swore between his teeth till the end of the 
journey. 

The miller, with Lemor, Grand’-Marie, and M. Tail- 
land the notary, came at this moment out of the mill. 
Lemor was resolved to leave the next morning, and on 
this his last evening, lost in a tender melancholy, and in¬ 
attentive to what was said around him, he was contem¬ 
plating the beauty of the heavens, and the reflection of 
the stars in the water. The miller, gloomy and de¬ 
pressed, exerted himself to be polite to the notary, who 
had been drawing up a will for a farmer of the neighbor¬ 
hood, and had stopped on his way past the mill, to light 
his cigar and the lanterns of his cabriolet. Graud’-Marie 
was just explaining to him how, by taking another direc¬ 
tion, he might avoid a long piece of stony road, and 
Grand-Louis was assuring him that by driving slowly 
over this same place, or walking and leading the horse, 
he would find the rest of the way better. The notary, 
when his comfort was concerned, was what is called in 
that part of the country extremely fafiot; an untranslat¬ 
able word, which implies a man at once very dawdling 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


278 

and very precise. He had just lost a quarter of an hour 
which he might have spent in repose at home, in learning 
how he might avoid fifteen minutes’ slight fatigue. 

He thought that walking and leading his horse would 
be still more fatiguing than enduring the jolts in his cab¬ 
riolet, but that of the two the best was bad, and promotive 
of indigestion. 

“Come,” said the miller, who would not allow his 
melancholy to overpower his natural kindness and oblig¬ 
ing temper, “ follow me slowly up the hill on foot, and I 
will drive your equipage to the top. When we have 
passed the vineyards, you will have firm sand the rest 
of the way.” 

While good-naturedly fulfilling the office of groom, 
Grand-Louis was soon obliged to turn the cabriolet al¬ 
most into the ditch, to make way for M. Ravelard’s car¬ 
riage, which dashed by at full speed. M. Ravelard, 
preoccupied with his encounter with the mendicant, neg¬ 
lected to answer the miller’s friendly u good-evening.” 

“ And so he does not know me because he is in his 
carriage ? ” said the latter to Lemor, who had fol¬ 
lowed him ; “ money, money ! thou turnest the world as 
the water does my mill-wheel. This cursed patachon 
will smash everything, if he goes at this rate over our 
flints. No doubt his head is full of wine and his pouch 
of money. I know not which intoxicates most. Ah ! 
Rose ! Rose ! they will give thee the poison of vanity to 
drink, and soon, perhaps, thou also wilt forget me. Yet 
she seemed almost to love me this evening ! Her eyes were 
full of tears when they parted her from me. I shall 
speak to her no more — perhaps she will regret me — 
Ah ! how happy I might be were I not so unhappy ! ” 

The miller’s reflections were interrupted by a start 
of the horse whom he drove. He leaned forwards, 
and saw some light-colored object in the road. The horse 
obstinately refused to advance, and the shadows were so 
heavy just there, that Grand-Louis was forced to alight, 
to see whether he had stumbled upon a pile of stones or 
a drunken man. 

u Oh, the devil, good uucle ! ” said he, on recognizing 


THE MILLER OF ANGIE A UL T. 


279 

the tall stature and the wallet of the mendicant. “ Last 
night it was on the edge of a ditch, which may do, but 
to-night it is right across the ruts ! You seem to have a 
fancy for this place, but it makes you a poor bed. Come, 
wake up, and come and sleep at the mill; you will be bet¬ 
ter off there than under the horses’ hoofs.” 

u This man is dead ! ” said Henri, raising the beggar in 
his arms. 

“ Oh ! don’t be afraid ; he has often gone through this 
death ; it is a common thing. Nevertheless, our gossip 
has a strong head for drink, but on a fete day one is apt 
to take more than is wise ; and as they say of wine, there 
is no friend so faithful who will not betray you at last. 
Come, let us leave him at the foot of this tree, we will 
take him up again as we go back.” 

Lemor touched the mendicant’s wrist. 

“If I did not feel a faint motion of the pulse,” said he, 
“ I would swear that he was dead. How ! are not pov¬ 
erty, old age, and desolation enough, but a degrading vice 
must drag this wretch beneath the very feet of men ! And 
yet he, too, is a man ! ” 

“ Bah ! you are severe, like a true water-drinker! 
Who was it that said the poor had need to drink away 
the remembrance of their woes? I have certainly heard 
it somewhere.” 

Just as Lemor and the miller were about to leave Ca- 
doche for a time, he gave a deep groan. 

“ Ah ! well now, uncle,” said the miller, with a smile, 
“ are you better now?” 

“ I am dead ! ” feebly answered the mendicant. “ Take 
pity on me — finish me ! I am in too much pain ! ” 

“ It will go off, uncle. Some cold water and a good 
bed — ” 

“ They have crushed me, they drove over my body,” 
resumed the old man. 

“ That is not so impossible ! ” said Lemor. 

“ Oh, he always talks in this way,” returned the 
miller, who had witnessed the painful vagaries of intoxi¬ 
cation too often to be much troubled by them. “ Let us 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


280 

see, Father Cadoche ; have you really met with any acci¬ 
dent ? ” 

“ Yes, the carriage, the carriage — on my chest, my 
stomach, my arms ! ” 

“ Unfasten one of the lanterns from the cabriolet, and 
bring it here,” said the miller to Lemor. “ Now, it 
lightens one corner and makes another darker ; when we 
have it close under his nose, we shall soon see whether 
sickness or wine ails him.” 

“ No, not wine, not wine,” murmured the mendicant. 
“ They have killed me, crushed me like a poor dog — I 
shall die of it. May the good God, and the Holy Vir¬ 
gin, and all good Christians take pity on me, and avenge 
my death ! ” 

Lemor brought the lantern. The beggar’s face was 
livid ; his garments were too old and dirty to show a rent 
or a stain, more or less ; but on removing the rags which 
covered his breast, there appeared on his gaunt side 
marks of burning red, where the iron-banded wheels had 
passed over him. Yet the skin was unbroken, the ribs 
did not seem fractured, and his breathing was still free. 
He could even describe his accident, and had sufficient 
strength to pour forth all the imprecations and oaths of 
vengeance that rage and despair could suggest to him, 
against the rich man in his carriage, and the vile merce¬ 
nary who outdid the insolence and cruelty of his master. 

‘•Thanks to God! ” said the miller, “you are not dead 
yet, poor Cadoche; and we will hope that you may not 
die this time. See, the right wheel went into the ditch ; 
here is the track of it. It was that saved you ; the car¬ 
riage, by tipping that way, bore as little as possible upon 
you. It was a miracle that it did not turn over en¬ 
tirely.” 

“ I did my best to make it! ” said the beggar. 

“Ah, well, your malice served you a good turn, uncle. 
They could not crush you, and we will make them pay 
well for this ; not poor M. Ravelard, who will be even 
more sorry than you, but that cursed boy ! ” 

“And the days that I shall lose ! ” whined the mendi¬ 
cant. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


281 

u Ah ! faith! you gained more money, perhaps, in 
strolling about, than the rest of us by our labor. But 
you shall be assisted, Father Cadoclie ; we will make a 
collection for you, and I will give you, myself, your 
weight in grain; don’t be worried. When there is 
trouble we must not let fear make it worse.” 

So speaking, the good miller, with Lemor’s help, 
placed the mendicant in the cabriolet, and brought him 
back at a foot pace, avoiding the flints with the utmost 
care. M. Tailland, who was climbing the hill very 
slowly, for fear of losing his breath, was amazed to see 
them return ; and, on being acquainted with the cause, 
readily lent his cabriolet, yet not without some concern 
on account of the delay that the accident would occasion 
him, and the fatigue that he should have in going up the 
hill again, when he was already near the top. He turned 
back, nevertheless, to see if he could aid his friends at 
the mill in succoring poor Cadoche. 

The old pan fainted when they laid him on the miller’s 
own bed. They held vinegar to his nose. 

u I should like the smell of brandy better,” said he, 
when he began to recover ; u it is more wholesome.” 

They brought him some. 

“ I should rather drink it than smell it,” said he, “ it 
is more strengthening.” 

Lemor opposed this. After such an accident, this 
burning draught might and would create a terrible access 
of fever. The mendicant insisted. The miller would 
have dissuaded him, but the notary, who had been too 
studious of his own health not to have some medical 
prejudices, pronounced that water, under such circum¬ 
stances, would be fatal to a man who, perhaps, had not 
swallowed a drop for fifty years ; and that alcohol, being 
his ordinary drink, would only do him good ; that fright 
was his only serious injury, and that he would recover his 
senses with the excitement of a dram. The mill-wife 
and Jean, like all peasants, believed in the infallible vir¬ 
tues of wine and brandy in all cases, and declared, with 
the notary, that the poor man must be satisfied. The 
opinion of the majority prevailed; and while they were 


282 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


gone to get him a glass, Cadoche, really parched with 
the thirst excited by his great suffering, carried the bot¬ 
tle hastily to his lips, and swallowed at one draught more 
than half the contents. 

u Too much, that is too much ! ” said the miller, stop¬ 
ping him. 

“How, nephew ! ” answered the beggar, with the dig¬ 
nity of a patriarch assuming the legitimate exercise of 
his authority ; “ thou measurest my portion in thy house ? 
Thou art niggardly of the succor necessary in my condi¬ 
tion? ” 

This unjust reproach overcame the prudence of the 
good and simple-hearted miller. He left the bottle beside 
the old man, saying : 

“ Keep it for another time, but that is enough for the 
present.” 

u Thou art a good kinsman and a worthy nephew ! ” 
said Cadoche, who appeared suddenly resuscitated by the 
brandy ; “ and if I must die, I had rather it should be at 
thy house, because thou wilt give me a suitable funeral. 
I always liked a fine funeral! Hearken, nephew, mill- 
boys, notary! I take you all to witness, that I direct 
my nephew and heir, Grand-Louis of Angibault, to have 
me carried to the grave neither more nor less honorably 
than they will soon doubtless carry old Bricolin of 
Blanchemont — who will survive me but short time, al¬ 
though he be the younger — but who got his legs burned 
when — Ah ! ah ! now then, say, must he not have been 
a fool to have had his pins roasted for the sake of money 
that had been left with him? To be sure, there was 
some of his own with it, in the iron pot! ” 

“What is he talking about?” asked the notary, who 
had seated himself by a table, and was not sorry to see 
the mill-wife preparing tea for the sick man, intending to 
take a hot cup himself, as protection against the evening 
mists of the Vauvre. “ What old stories is he telling 
of his roasted pins and his iron pot ? ” 

“ I believe he is out of his head,” replied the miller. 
“At any rate, were he neither sick nor fuddled, he is old 
enough to dote, and the adventures of his youth are more 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 283 

on his mind than those of the present. It is the way of 
age. How do you feel, uncle? ” 

44 1 feel much better since that little drop, though thy 
brandy is devilish weak! Could any one have played 
me such a trick as to mix water with it for economy? 
Hearken, nephew ! if thou refusest me anything during 
my sickness, I will disinherit thee ! ” 

44 Ah, yes, to be sure, by way of talking sense! ” said 
the miller, shrugging his shoulders. “ You had better 
try to sleep, Father Cadoche.” 

44 Sleep, I ? I have no wish to,” replied the mendi¬ 
cant, raising himself on his elbow, and glancing around 
with sparkling eyes. 44 1 know very well that I am done 
for, but I will not die on my side, like an ox. Ugh ! I 
feel something heavy in my stomach, there on my heart, 
as if there were a stone in its place. It itches — it 
hurts ! Grand’-Marie ! make me some bandages. No¬ 
body here takes any notice of me, as if I were not a rich 
old uncle ! ” 

44 May not his ribs be crushed in ? ” said Lemor. 44 It 
may be that which oppresses his heart.” 

44 1 know nothing about it, nor does any one here,” 
said the miller ; 44 but we could easily send for the doctor, 
who is doubtless still at Blanchemont.” 

44 And who will pay for the doctor?” said the beggar, 
who was as miserly as vain of his pretended wealth. 

44 1 will,” answered Grand-Louis, 44 unless he will 
come for humanity’s sake. It shall never be said that a 
poor devil perished at my house for want of all the help 
that could be given to a rich man. Jean, take Sophie 
and go quick for M. Lavergne.” 

44 Take Sophie? ” chuckled Cadoche. 44 Thou sayest 
that from habit, nephew ! Thou hast forgotten that So¬ 
phie is stolen.” 

44 Sophie stolen ? ” said the mill-wife, turning hastily 
round. 

44 He is wandering,” replied the miller. 44 Don’t mind 
him, mother. Say, Father Cadoche,” added he, turning 
to the mendicant, and lowering his voice, 44 how did you 


284 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


know that ? Cannot you give me some news of my beast 
and the thief? ” 

“Who can know such things?” returned Cadoche, 
with a cunning look. “Who discovers thieves? Not 
the police, they are not bright enough ! Who could 
ever say who they were that burned Father Bricolin’s 
legs, and carried off his iron pot?” 

“Ah! say now, uncle,” replied the miller, “you are 
always speaking to us about those legs ; you must think 
of them a great deal. For some time, whenever I meet 
you, you return to it; and to-night there is an iron pot 
added to your story. You never told me about that.” 

“Do not make him talk!” said his mother; “thou 
wilt increase his fever.” 

The mendicant had really a high fever. Every time 
that his hosts’ backs were turned, he swallowed furtively 
a mouthful of brandy, and adroitly replaced the bottle 
beneath his bolster on the further side of the bed. Each 
instant he appeared stronger, and it was wonderful to see 
how, at his advanced age, his iron frame supported the 
effects of an injury which would have crushed any other 
person. 

“ The iron pot! ” said he, gazing at Grand-Louis with 
strange eyes, which affected him with a sort of inexpli¬ 
cable terror. “ The iron pot! that is the best of the 
story, and I will tell it you.” 

“Tell us, tell us, Father Cadoche, this interests me ! ” 
said the notary, who was attentively watching him. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2S5 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE WILL. 

'T'HERE was,” resumed the beggar, “ an iron pot, an 
old ugly iron pot, which did not look like any thing 
at all— but one must not judge by looks ! In this pot — 
close sealed it was, and heavy, oh, how heavy ! — there 
were 50,000 francs belonging to the old lord of Blanche- 
mont, whose granddaughter is now at the Bricolin farm. 
And besides, old Father Bricolin, who was a young man 
then — it is now just forty years ago ! — had laid away 
in this pot 50,000 francs of his own, which he made by 
a good speculation in wool — that was the time ! — on 
account of the army contracts. The lord’s deposit and 
the farmer’s profits were all in fine, handsome louis d’ors 
of twenty-four francs each, with the head of our good 
king Louis XVI. — we called them toad's eyes , because 
of the round shield — I always loved that coin ! They 
say it loses in exchange, but I say it gains. 23 francs 
11 sous are always worth more than a wretched Napo¬ 
leon of 20 francs. All this was pell mell. Only, as the 
farmer loved his louis for themselves, (that is the way to 
love money, children !) he had marked all his with a 
cross, to distinguish them from his lord’s, when he should 
have to restore them. He followed the example of his 
master, who had marked his with a plain bar, to amuse 
himself, so they said, and to see if any were changed. 
The mark was there — it is there still — not one is miss¬ 
ing — on the contrary, some are added ! —” 

“ What the deuce is he prating to us about? ” said the 
miller, looking at the notary. 

“ Hush ! ” answered the latter. “ Let him talk. It 
seems to me that I begin to understand. So that,” said 
he to the beggar — 


2 S6 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


“ So that,” resumed Cadoche, “ he had put the iron 
pot in a hole in the wall, at the chateau of Beaufort, and 
had it plastered up. When the chauffeurs came after him, 
— you are not to think that these people were all vag¬ 
abonds ! Some were poor, but some were rich ; faith ! I 
know them very well! Some are yet living, and honored 
by men. There were among us —■ ” 

“ Among you ? ” cried the miller. 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” said the notary, forcibly pressing 
his arm. 

“ I mean to say that there were among them,” re¬ 
sumed the mendicant, “ an advocate, a mayor, a curate, 
a miller — perhaps a notary also — eh ! eh ! M. Tailland, 
I do not say that for you ; you were hardly born then ; 
nor for thee, nephew; thou wouldst have been too simple 
to have done such a thing — ” 

“In short, the chauffeurs took the money?” said the 
notary. , 

“ They did not take it, that was the queerest of it. 
They broiled and frizzled that poor goose of a Bricolin’s 
feet — that was horrid, superb to see ! ” 

“ You saw it, then? ” said the miller, quite unable to 
contain himself. 

“ Oh no ! ” returned Cadoche, “ I did not see it; but 
one of my friends, that is, a man who chanced to be there, 
told me all this.” 

“ Very well,” said the miller, tranquillized. 

“ Now take your cup of tea, Father Cadoche,” said 
Grand’-Marie, “ and do not chatter so much; you will 
hurt yourself.” 

“ Go to the devil with your hot water! ” replied the 
mendicant, pushing back the cup ; “I detest your slops ! 
Let me tell my story; I have had it long enough at 
heart; I want to tell the whole of it once before I die, 
and I am always interrupted ! ” 

“ True enough,” said the notary ; “ this morning you 
wanted to tell it in the arbors, and everybody turned 
away, saying 4 Let us be off! Here is Father Cadoche 
beginning his story of the chauffeurs! * But it amused 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 287 

me, and I would willingly have heard the rest. So go 
on.” 

44 You are to understand,” said Cadoche, “ that this 
man of whom I speak to you, aud who was there, some¬ 
what against his will, was a poor peasant, whom they had 
led away; and then, when fear took him, and he showed 
signs of drawing back, they threatened to blow his brains 
out if he did not mount the horse they brought him, and 
which was shod with shoes turned backwards like those 
of the others, so as to leave a false trail on their retreat 

— and when my man was there, and saw that he must 
do like the rest, he began to hunt and rummage everywhere 
to find the money. He had rather do that than help to 
roast poor Bricolin, for he was not a bad man, this fellow 
I am talking about. Fact! this job did not please him, 
and was horrible for him to see — it was ugly — the pa¬ 
tient howling loud enough to split one’s ears, the wife 
fainting, those cursed legs struggling in the fire that I 
think I always see — there has not been a night since that 
I have not dreamed of them ! Bricolin was a very strong 
man then ; he stiffened himself so that an iron bar, which 
was in the midst of the fire, was twisted by his feet — ah ! 
I had no hand in it, I swear before God! When they 
forced me to hold the towel over his mouth, the sweat ran 
down my face, cold as hoar-frost — ” 

“ Your face?” said the amazed miller. 

“ The man’s who told me all this. Then our man took 
a good chance to slip one side, and began to search, search, 
from the top of the house to the bottom, striking with a 
pickaxe against all the walls, to see if they sounded hol¬ 
low, and smashing everything right and left as the others 
did. But now what should happen but that he stepped 
into a little stable for pigs, saving your presence, and 
found himself all alone ! Ever since that time I have loved 
pigs, and raised one every year. He knocked, listened, 

— it sounded hollow. He looked round him. I was 
all alone! He worked at the wall, tore it away, and 
found — guess what? The iron pot! We knew that 
this was Father Bricolin’s strong box. The locksmith 
who had fastened it had blabbed, and I knew at once 


288 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


that this was our flower-pot i And it was so heavy ! All 
one! My man found the strength of an ox in his arms 
and his heart. He got off safe and sound with his iron 
pot, and left the country by daybreak, without saying 
good-by to the others. He was never seen again in that 
district. He played a high game, you see ! The chauf¬ 
feurs would have made an end of him mighty quick, if 
they had caught him. He walked day and night without 
stopping to eat or drink till he came to a great wood, 
where he buried his pot, and slept, I don’t know how 
many hours. I was so tired with carrying such a load ! 
When I grew hungry, I was greatly puzzled. I had not 
a single sous, and 1 knew that in my 100,000 francs every 
louis was marked! I had looked at them; I could not 
keep myself from doing so ! I saw that this cursed mark 
would be recognized, as the police were already informed 
of the money. To scratch it out would have been worse. 
And then, if a poor devil like the one I speak of had 
offered to change a louis d’or for a loaf of bread at a 
baker’s, that would have aroused suspicion. There was 
only one thing to do : he turned beggar. The police were 
not so efficient in those times as now, for none of the chauf¬ 
feurs left the country, or were punished. Beggary is a 
good trade when one knows how to set about it. I have 
picked up something, without ever depriving myself of 
anything. My man was not the fool to call in a lock¬ 
smith to seal up the iron pot; he buried it right in the 
middle of a wretched cabin of straw and mud, which 
served him for a house, and which he built for himself 
in the heart of the wood. For forty years nobody has 
tormented him, because nobody envied his fate, and he 
has had the pleasure of being richer and prouder than all 
those who despised him.” 

“ And of what use was his gold to him? ” said Henri. 

“ He looked at it once a week when he returned to his 
cabin, where he kept all the money that he received in 
alms. He kept on his person only what he chose to 
spend in tobacco and brandy. He had a mass said from 
time to time, to acquit himself towards the good God, for 
the service he had received, and so he drew himself out 


THE MILLER OE ANGIBAULT. 


289 

of the scrape with much order and wisdom. He is not 
foolish enough to let go a single piece of his treasure. 
It would not excite suspicion now that the story is for¬ 
gotten and the prosecution abandoned, but it would make 
people think him rich, and then they would give him 
nothing. There, children, that is the story of the iron 
pot. What do you think of it?” 

“It is superb ! ” said the notary ; u and well worth 
knowing! ” 

The narration was followed by a deep silence. Each 
one looked at the others, divided between surprise, terror, 
contempt, and a sort of odd desire to laugh mingled with 
all these emotions. Cadoche, exhausted by his garrulity, 
had fallen back on his pillow. His pale face took a 
greenish tinge, and his long, stiff beard, still black enough 
to darken his clay-colored countenance, made him abso¬ 
lutely frightful. His hollow eyes, which lately darted 
flames, while delirium and intoxication loosened his 
tongue, seemed to sink in their sockets, and take the 
glassy shine of death. His strongly-marked face, large, 
thin, aquiline nose, and compressed lips, might have 
been handsome in his youth, and were indicative, not of 
a ferocious nature, but of a singular mixture of avarice, 
cunning, timidity, sensuality, and even of good-nature. 

“ Uf! ” said the miller, at last, u has he had the 
nightmare, or have we just been hearing a confession ? 
Must we call upon the doctor or the priest? ” 

“ Upon the mercy of God! ” said Lemor, who had 
watched with more attention than the others the change 
in the face of the beggar, and the difficulty of his res¬ 
piration. kt I am much deceived, or this man has but a 
few moments to live.” 

“I have few moments to live?” said Cadoche, mak¬ 
ing an effort to rise. “ Who says so? the doctor? I do 
not believe in doctors. To the devil with them all! ” 

He leaned toward the bedside, and finished the bottle 
of brandy; then turning back, he was seized with a 
sharp pain, and gave a cry. 

u My heart is thrust in,” said he, struggling energet¬ 
ically against his suffering. Very likely I shall not get 

19 


290 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAUL7. 


over it. And if I should never return to my house, what 
will become of everything? And who will take care of 
my poor pig? He is used to live on the bread that is 
given me, and which I carry to him every week. I have 
a little neighbor-girl who takes him out to the pastures. 
The coquette ! She casts sweet eyes on me — she hopes 
to inherit my estate. But she hopes in vain. Behold 
my inheritor! ” 

And Cadoche, with a solemn air, extended his hand 
towards Grand-Louis. 

44 He has always been better to me than anybody else ; 
he is the only one who has treated me as I deserve ; who 
has given me a bed to sleep on, and wine, and tobacco, 
and brandy, and meat, instead of their crusts — which I 
never touched! I have always practised one virtue — 
gratitude! I have always loved Grand-Louis and the 
good God, because they have been good to me. So now 
I will make my will in his favor, as I have always prom¬ 
ised him. Grand’-Marie, do you believe I am so sick 
that it is time to make my will ? ” 

u No, no, my poor man ! ” said the mill-wife, -who, in 
her angelic trustfulness, had taken the mendicant’s story 
as a sort of dream. 44 Do not make your will; they say 
it is unlucky, and makes one die.” 

44 On the contrary,” said M. Tailland, 44 it does one 
good ; it is a comfort; it is enough to restore one from 
death.” 

u In that case, notary,” said the beggar, “ I will try 
the remedy. I love what I own, and I want to be sure 
that it will pass into good hands, and not into those of 
the little jades who pay their court to me, and who shall 
have nothing of me but the bouquet and ribbon from my 
hat, to make themselves fine o’ Sundays. Notary, take 
your pen and scribble me down this in good terms, and 
without omitting anything: 

44 1 give and bequeath to my friend Grand-Louis, of 
Angibault, all that I possess : my house, situated in Jeu- 
les-bois, my little potato-plot, my pig, my horse — ” 

44 Your horse?” said the miller. 44 Since when have 
you had a horse?” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


291 

“ Since yesterday evening. It is a horse I found as I 
was walking.” 

“ May it not, perhaps, be mine? ” 

“ Thou hast said the word. It is thy old Sophie, who 
is not worth her shoes.” 

“Your pardon, uncle! ” said the miller, half pleased, 
half vexed. “ I think a great deal of Sophie; she is 
worth more than — many people ! The devil! you were 
not over particular when you robbed me of Sophie! and 
me, who would have trusted you with the key of my mill! 
Do you see this old hypocrite?” 

“ Be silent, my nephew, you speak foolishly,” returned 
Cadoche gravely ; “it would be a pretty thing if an uncle 
might not have the use of his nephew’s mare ! What is 
yours is mine, since, by my intentions and my "will, what 
is mine is yours.” 

“ Oh ! ah, to be sure ! ” replied the miller ; “ bequeath 
me Sophie, uncle, bequeath away, I accept that much. 
It is lucky, all the same, that you had not time to sell 
her. Old rogue ! ” he muttered between his teeth. 

“ What dost thou say? ” asked the beggar. 

“ Nothing, uncle,” said the miller, who perceived a 
sort of convulsive rattle about the old man. “ I say you 
did very well, if it was your pleasure to ask charity on 
horseback! ” 

“Have you done, notary?” resumed Cadoche, with a 
failing voice. “You write very slowly. I feel myself 
sinking. Hurry yourself, lazy scrivener ! ” 

“It is done,” said the notary. “ Do you know how to 
sign ? ” 

“ Better than you ! ” retorted Cadoche. “ But I do 
not see. I must have my spectacles and a pinch of snuff.” 

“ Here they are,” said the mill-dame. 

“ That is good,” resumed he, after having inhaled a 
pinch of snuff with great relish, “ that revives me. Come, 
I am not dead yet, though I suffer like one possessed.” 

He cast his eyes over the will, and said, “ Ah! you 
have not forgotten the iron pot and its contents ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” answered M. Tailland. 

“ You did well,” replied Cadoche, with a mocking ex- 


292 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


pression, “ though all that I told you about it was a story 
to make fools of you ! ” 

U I was sure of it!” said the miller, joyously. “If 
you had found that money, you would have restored it to 
the owners. You have always been an honest man, uncle 
— though you did steal my mare. But that was one of 
your jokes ; you would have brought her back to me! 
Come, do not sign this nonsense; I have no need of your 
little things, and they might give pleasure to some poor 
body; besides, you may have some relation, whom I 
would not wrong of your last sous.” 

“ I have no relations, I have buried them all, thank 
God ! ” answered the mendicant; “ and as to the poor — 
I despise them ! Give me the pen, or I curse thee ! ” 

“Well,- well, amuse yourself!” said the miller, hand¬ 
ing him the pen. 

The beggar signed ; then pushing away the paper with 
apparent horror— 

“ Take it away,” cried he,“ take it away ! it seems to 
me it will kill me ! ” 

“ Shall I tear it? ” asked Grand-Louis, quite ready to 
do so. 

“ No ! no ! ” replied the mendicant, with a last effort 
of will; “ put it in thy pocket, my boy, maybe thou wilt 
not be sorry for it. Ah, so ! where is the doctor? I waut 
him to come and make a quicker end of me, if I must 
suffer long in this way ! ” 

“ He is coming,” said the miller’s mother, “ and the 
curate with him; for I sent for them both.” 

“ The curate? ” said Cadoche ; “ what for? ” 

“To give you some consoling words, my old man. 
You have always had some religion, and your soul is as 
precious as anybody’s else. I am sure the curate will 
not refuse to take the trouble to bring you the sacra¬ 
ments.” 

“ So that is my state?” replied the dying man with a 
deep sigh. “ If that is the case — no nonsense ! and the 
curate may go to all the five hundred devils, although he 
is a good man after all — when he is sober. But I don’t 
believe in curates, I love the good God, and not the 



FHE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 93 


priests. Tlie good God gave me money, the priest would 
have made me return it. Let me die in peace ! Nephew, 
thou promisest me that this wretched patachon shall die 
under the stick ? ” 

“ No ! but to thrash him soundly.” 

“ Enough talk,” said the mendicant, stretching out his 
livid hand. “ I wished to die talking, but I can no more 
— Ah ! I am not so sick as you think, I am going to 
sleep, and perhaps thou wilt not inherit so soon, my 
nephew! ” 

He let himself fall back, and after an instant, there 
was a sound as of boiling water in his chest. His face 
flushed, then turned ashy pale ; he groaued for some min¬ 
utes, opened his eyes with a frightened look, as if death 
had appeared to him in perceptible form, and suddenly, 
half smiling as if he had recovered hope of life, he gave 
up the ghost. 

In the death of even the worst of men there is always 
something solemn and mysterious which impresses the 
religious soul with respect and silence. There was a 
moment of awe, and even of melancholy, at the mill, when 
the mendicant Cadoche had expired. Notwithstanding 
his vices and absurdities, notwithstanding even the ex¬ 
traordinary confession they had just heard, and which 
the notary alone really believed, the miller and his 
mother had a sort of friendship for the old man, arising 
from the good they were accustomed to do him; for if it 
is a true saying that we hate people in proportion to the 
wrong we do them, the opposite maxim should be also 
received. 

The mill-dame knelt by the bed in prayer. Lemor and 
the miller also prayed in their hearts the Dispenser of all 
mercy not to abandon the immortal and divine soul 
which had made its earthly passage under the abject 
form of this wretch. 

The notary alone went quietly back to his cup of tea, 
after coolly pronouncing, “ Ite, missa est , Dominus vobis - 
cum,” 

“ Grand-Louis,” said he afterwards, calling him out of 
the room, “ thou must go at once to Jeu-les-bois, before 


294 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


the news of this death reaches there. Some Vagabond 
hke himself might overturn his hovel, and steal the egg.” 

“ What egg? ” said the miller. “ His pig, his change 
of rags?” 

“ No, but the iron pot.” 

“ Fantasy, M. Tailland ! ” 

“ Go and see, nevertheless ! And then thy mare?” 

“Ah, my old servant! I forgot—you are right. She 
is well worth the journey, for her good heart and our old 
friendship. We are nearly of an age, she and I. I will 
go, but what if he only jested with me about that too ? 
He was an old rogue ! ” 

“ Go, go, I tell thee — no laziness ! I believe in this 
iron pot. I believe in it firm as iron , as they say here.” 

“ But tell me then, M. Tailland, is it really of any 
value, that bit of paper that you scribbled over for your 
amusement? ” 

“ I answer for its being in good form, and it may ren¬ 
der thee possessor of one hundred thousand francs.” 

“ Me? but you forget that if the story is true, half of 
it belongs to Mme. de Blanchemont, and the rest to 
Bricolin.” 

“ Still another reason for haste. Thy heart has ac¬ 
cepted the charge of restitution.' Go and seek it. When 
thou hast rendered this service to M. Bricolin, it will go 
hard but he gives thee his daughter.” 

“ His daughter! Do I pretend to his daughter? Can 
his daughter think of me ? ” said the miller, blushing. 

“ Good, good ! Discretion is a virtue, but I saw you 
dancing together to-day, and I know why the father 
parted you so roughly.” 

“ M. Tailland, put all that out of your mind. I am 
going. If there is really a treasure, what shall I do with 
it? Is not a declaration before a magistrate necessary?” 

“To what purpose? The formalities of justice were 
invented for those who have no justice in their hearts. 
What good would it do to dishonor the memory of an 
old rogue who has succeeded for eighty years in passing 
for an honest man? And thou hast no need to prove 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 

that thou art not a thief, everybody knows it. 
wilt restore the money and all will be right.” 

u But if the old man has relations?” 

“He has none; and if he had, wouldst thou 
them inherit what does not belong to them?” 

“ True, true, I am all confused by what has just taken 
place. I will go mount my horse.” 

“ That will not be convenient for bringing back this 
famous iron pot, which is so heavy, so heavy ! Are the 
roads tolerable down there ? ” 

“ Certainly. From here you go to Transault, thence 
to Lys-St.-George, and then to Jeu. It is all cross-road, 
and newly repaired.” 

“ In that case, take my carriage, Grand-Louis, and be 
quick.” 

“ Well, and you?” 

“ I will sleep here, and wait for you.” 

“ The devil take me but you are a fine fellow ! And 
what if the beds are poor, for you are rather delicate ? ” 

“ So much the worse ! One night is soon over. Be¬ 
sides, we cannot leave thy mother alone with the corpse, 
it is too dismal. For thou must take thy mill-boy. Two 
are none too many to carry money. Thou wilt find 
\ loaded pistols in the pockets of my cabriolet. I often have 
things of value to carry, and never travel without my 
arms. Come, be off! Tell thy mother to make me some 
more tea. We will talk as long as we can, for this corpse 
annoys me.” 

Five minutes later, Lemor and the miller were on the 
road to Jeu-les-bois, through the dark night. We will 
give them time to arrive there, and return to see how 
matters went on at the farm during the time of their 
journey. 


2 95 

Thou 

make 


2q6 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT . 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

DISASTER. 

/GRANDMOTHER BRICOLIN was very impatient 
at the delay of the miller. She was far from think¬ 
ing that her messenger would never return to claim his 
promised reward, and the reader will easily understand 
that the mendicant forgot, at the moment of his death, 
to give the message which had been intrusted to him. 
At last, weary and discouraged with waiting, she re¬ 
turned to her old spouse, after having assured herself 
that the maniac was still roaming in the warren, ab¬ 
sorbed, as usual, in rumination, and that the quiet echoes 
of the valley were no longer awakened by her ill-boding 
cries. It was about midnight. A few unsteady voices 
still rose as their owners left the cabarets, and the dogs 
at the farm, as if recognizing familiar tones, disdained 
to bark. 

M. Bricolin, urged on by his wife, who desired the in¬ 
stant execution of the deed drawn up by Marcelle, had, 
not without pain and terror, delivered to the latter the 
pocket-book containing two hundred and fifty thousand 
francs. Marcelle was quite unmoved on receiving this 
venerable object. It was so dirty that she took it with 
her finger ends, and, tired of thinking of an affair in 
which she had been so much disgusted by the cupidity of 
others, she threw it into a corner of Rose’s secretary. 
She had accepted this prompt payment for the same 
reason that had impelled the purchaser to make it, 
namely, to bind him, and secure the destiny of the 
young girl by preventing any possibility of retraction. 

She desired Fanchon, at whatever hour Grand-Louis 
should present himself, to take him into the kitchen, and 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


297 

come to call her. Then she threw herself — dressed as 
she was — upon her bed to rest, without sleeping, for 
Rose was still much excited, and seemed never weary of 
blessing her, and talking to her of her happiness. Mean¬ 
while, the miller not arriving, and every one’s strength 
being exhausted by the emotions of the day, towards two 
in the morning all at the farm were in deep sleep. One 
of the family must be excepted — the maniac, whose 
brain was wrought to a paroxysm of intolerable fever. 

M. and Mme. Bricolin had talked long together in the 
kitchen. The former having nothing more to fear, and 
feeling chilled by all the water he had drank, had re¬ 
turned to his mug, which he filled from hour to hour by 
tipping with an unsteady hand an enormous jug that 
stood beside him, filled with purple, foaming wine. It 
was unpressed wine, the most heady of his vintage, a de¬ 
testable beverage, but preferred by a Berrichon to any 
wine in the world. 

His wife, seeing that neither the satisfaction of being 
proprietor of Blanchemont, nor the smiling projects of 
his opulence, could brighten his dull eye, or loosen his 
fixed jaw, had repeatedly advised him to go to bed. He 
always replied, “ Directly. I am just going,” but with¬ 
out quitting his chair. At last, after having been to see 
that Rose as well as Marcelle was sleeping, Mme. Bric¬ 
olin could endure it no longer, and went to bed and to 
sleep, calling vainly to her husband, who had not force 
enough left to stir, and did not now even hear her. 
Completely intoxicated and prostrated — as a man always 
is who has made an effort to sober himself suddenly, and 
has amply repaid himself afterwards — the farmer, his 
hand on his mug, and his head sunk on the table, made 
a lullaby of portentous snores for the wearied sleep of 
his wife, who was in bed in the next room, with the door 
open. 

An hour had scarcely passed away, when M. Bricolin 
felt himself suffocating, and ready to sink with faintness. 
He could hardly rise. It seemed to him that there was 
no air to breathe, that his sharp eyes could discern 
nothing, and that he was struck with apoplexy. Fear 


298 THE miller of angibault. 

of death lent him strength to grope to the door, which 
opened on the court; the candle had burned out in its 
tin socket. Having succeeded in opening the door, and 
descending the steps without falling, the farmer stared 
vacantly around him, without comprehending anything 
of what he saw. An extraordinary blaze of light which 
filled the court forced him to cover his eyes with his 
hand, for the passage from darkness to this burning 
glare gave him a new vertigo. At length, when the air 
had dissipated the fumes of wine, the species of asphyxia 
which had overpowered him gave way to a convulsive 
shudder — at first mechanical and merely physical, but 
soon produced by inexpressible terror. Two high jets of 
fire, flashing through clouds of smoke, rose from the roof 
of the barn. 

Bricolin thought himself in a bad dream; he rubbed 
his eyes, he shook his whole body: still these spires of 
flame leaped towards the skies, and increased with fright¬ 
ful rapidity. He would have cried “Fire!” but his 
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He tried to re¬ 
turn to the house from which he had wandered a few 
steps, without knowing where he went. He saw on his 
right torrents of flame pour from the stables, upon his 
left another jet of fire crowning the turrets of the old 
chateau; and before him—before him his own house, 
illumined within by a terrible glare, and the door which 
he had left open behind him vomiting black volumes of 
smoke, like the mouth of a forge. All the buildings of 
Blanchemont were the prey of a magnificently-arranged 
conflagration. They had been set on fire in more than 
ten or twelve different places, and what was most omi¬ 
nous in the first act of this strange drama was, that the 
silence of death brooded over all. No one as yet per¬ 
ceived the disaster which Bricolin, bereft of strength 
and will, contemplated in fearful solitude. All the in¬ 
habitants of the new chateau and of the farm had passed 
from the sleep of fatigue or intoxication to the asphyxia 
produced by the smoke. The crackling of the fire alone 
began to be heard, and the brittle noise of the falling 
tiles upon the pavement. Not a cry, not a wail, re- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


2 99 

sponded to these sinister monitions. It seemed as if the 
conflagration had found no food save deserted buildings 
or corpses. M. Bricolin wrung his hands, and stood 
mute and motionless, as if oppressed with nightmare, and 
making vain internal efforts to awaken himself. 

At last a piercing scream, a woman’s scream was 
heard, and Bricolin, as though delivered from the spell 
that weighed upon him, replied, by a wild outcry, to this 
appeal of the human voice. Marcelle had been the first 
to perceive the danger, and now darted out, with her 
child in her arms. Without seeing Bricolin or the rest 
of the fire, she placed the boy upon a pile of hay in the 
middle of the court, and saying to him, in a firm voice, 
u Stay there, do not be afraid! ” she hastily reentered 
the house, notwithstanding the suffocating smoke which 
filled it, and ran to the bed of Rose, who had remained 
as if paralyzed, incapable of following her. 

Then, endowed by her courage with the strength of a 
man, the slender little blonde took her young friend in 
her arms, and heroically carried a body, much heavier 
and larger than her own, to the place where she had left 
her child. 

Bricolin had thought at first of nothing but his crops 
and his cattle, and had run towards the barns ; but at the 
sight of his daughter, he remembered that he had a fam¬ 
ily, and, sobered for the second time that night, and 
more thoroughly now than before, he flew to the assist¬ 
ance of his mother and wife. 

Happily the fire had caught only the roofs, and the 
lower story, inhabited by the Bricolins, was still un¬ 
touched, with the exception of Rose’s wing, which, being 
very low, and in the neighborhood of a heap of dry fag¬ 
gots, burned rapidly. 

Mme. Bricolin, springing from bed, was in instant pos¬ 
session of her bodily powers and her presence of mind. 
With the assistance of her husband and Marcelle, she 
carried out her father-in-law, who, imagining himself in 
the hands of the chauffeurs, cried with all his might, u I 
have nothing more ! Do not kill me ! Do not burn me ! 
I will give you everything ! ” 


3 °° 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


Little Fanchon resolutely helped Mother Bricolin, who 
was soon ready to help others. The servants and work¬ 
men were aroused, and none perished ; but all this took 
considerable time, and when help came from the village, 
and a line was at length formed, it was too late ; the 
water seemed to increase the intensity of the fire, by rais¬ 
ing burning fragments and throwing them to a distance. 
The enormous quantity of grain and fodder heaped in 
the out-houses, blazed with the rapidity of thought. The 
ancient wood-work of the old buildings seemed to ask 
nothing better than to burn. Nearly all the larger 
animals refused to come out, and were stifled or burned. 
Nothing was preserved but the body of the new chateau, 
from which the tiles fell off, and whose new wood-work 
was left naked, charred, and raising its black skeleton 
over the yet white walls of the apartments. 

Fire-engines in the country are a tardy and useless re¬ 
source, often ill-contrived and ill-managed, and when they 
arrived on this occasion, their hose burst at the first trial, 
for want of use or good keeping. The firemen and 
villagers, nevertheless, succeeded in subduing the fire, 
and saving the habitation and furniture of the Bricolins. 
But the loss of everything else was immense and com¬ 
plete. The entire wing which Rose and Marcelle had 
inhabited, all the barns and out-houses, all the cattle and 
all the agricultural implements, were destroyed. The 
roof of the old chateau was still burning, but unheeded, 
because its strong, bare walls could defend themselves. 
One only of its towers was cracked from top to bottom 
by the heat. The others were preserved from final ruin 
by the huge ivy which clasped them round. 

The day began to dawn as the miller and Lemor came 
out from the mendicant’s wretched cabin. Lemor carried 
the iron pot, and Grand-Louis held the bridle of his dear 
Sophie, who had greeted his approach with a friendly 
whinnying. “I have read Don Quixote,” said he, “and 
I am now in the condition of Sancho recovering his ass. 
A little more, and I should follow his example, embrace 
my old Sophie, and make her a fine speech.” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3 QI 

u Grand-Louis,” said Lemor, “if you can resist this 
temptation, do you feel none to look and see whether this 
iron pot contains gold or pebbles?” 

“1 did lift the cover,” said the miller; “something 
shines inside, but I am in great haste to quit before day¬ 
light, before the inhabitants, if any there be in this 
desert, observe my motions, and take me for a thief. I 
tremble with emotion and pleasure, like a man who has 
well conducted another’s business ; but I am cool, never¬ 
theless, as one who inherits nothing for himself. File 
off, file off, Master Henri! Did you put my pickaxe 
back into the carriage? Wait while I take one more 
look. The hole is well filled up, nothing shows ; let us 
be gone ! We will rest in some wood, if our beasts are 
too tired to go on.” 

The notary’s horse had been three mortal leagues on 
the full trot, and often galloping over rough and hilly 
roads, and was indeed so tired on their return, that when 
our travellers arrived at the height of Lys-St.-George, 
they were obliged to stop to breathe him. Sophie, whom 
they had fastened behind the cabriolet, and who was not 
accustomed to move at so mad a rate, was covered with 
sweat. The miller’s heart was touched. “We should 
be merciful to the beasts,” said he ; “and then I should 
be sorry to have our good notary lose a valuable horse 
for his probity and wisdom in this business. As to 
Sophie, no iron pot is worth her; this old servant ought 
not to play the part of the earthen vessel. Here is a 
pretty shady spot, where neither man nor beast are stir¬ 
ring. Let us stop here. I am sure there is a bag of 
oats in the carriage-box, for M. Tailland thinks of every¬ 
thing, and is not the man to go to sea without biscuit. 
We will breathe here for a quarter of an hour, and we 
shall all be the fresher to start again. Unluckily, when 
giving the key of the fields to my uncle’s pig, (inherit him 
who will!) I forgot to steal some of his crusts of bread, 
and my stomach feels so hollow, that, but for wronging 
Sophie, I would willingly share her oats. It seems to 
me that my part as a miser’s heir is well begun. I am 
starving beside my treasure.” 


3°2 


THE MILLER OF A A GIB A UL T. 


While chatting thus according to his custom, the miller 
unbridled the horses, and gave them their breakfast — 
the notary’s in the bag that held the oats, and Sophie’s in 
his own long blue cotton cap, which he very facetiously 
tied round her nose. 

“ It is odd how light my heart feels now,” said he, 
bringing out the iron pot from under the bushes. “ Do 
you know, M. Lemor, that my happiness lies in here, 
within this pot, if the gold is not all on top, and the 
bottom filled with copper ? I am afraid it is too heavy 
to be all gold. Come now, help me count it.” 

It was soon counted. The pieces of old gold were 
rolled up in dirty scraps of paper, in sums of one thou¬ 
sand francs each. On opening them, Lemor and the 
miller saw the marks of which the mendicant had spoken. 
There was a cross upon each louis of Father Bricolin’s 
fortune, while those belonging to the deposit of the lord 
of Blanchemont bore a simple bar. At the bottom they 
found about three thousand francs in various silver coins, 
and even a handful of copper, the mendicant’s last col¬ 
lection. 

“ This,” said the miller, throwing it back into the pot, 
“ is my uncle’s fortune, your humble servant’s inherit¬ 
ance, the widow’s mite which this old dotard did not 
scruple to collect, and which shall return to the widow 
and the orphan, I promise you. Who knows if some of 
this be not the fruit of theft? Seeing how my uncle 
(peace to his soul!) filched Sophie from me, I am not 
over confident in the purity of his bequest. Ah, what 
pleasure I shall have in giving alms — I, who am so 
often deprived of this satisfaction! I shall have a 
princely pleasure ! Do you know that in this country 
one can save the lives and secure the comfort of three 
families with three thousand francs ? ” 

“ But you forget the rest of the deposit, Grand-Louis. 
Think that with this large sum, of which Mme. de 
Blanchemont has surely no personal need, you enable 
her also to confer much happiness.” 

“ Oh! trust her for making it fly in that direction ! 
But there is something besides that pleases me ! This 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3°3 


little hoard which M. Bricoliu will be so glad to receive 
from me! It will not find a very Christian use in his 
hands, but it will mend up my affairs, which were nearly 
ruined last night.” 

“That is to say, my dear Louis, that you can now 
aspire to the hand of Rose ? ” 

“ Oh, never think it! If the fifty thousand francs be¬ 
longed to me, that could be splendidly arranged ! But 
Bricolin knows how to calculate better than you. He 
will say, 4 Here are five hundred pistoles of mine, which 
Grand-Louis has done only his duty in bringing me. 
What is mine is not his ; so I have fifty thousand francs 
the more in my pocket, and he remains with his mill as 
before.’ ” 

“ And will he not be astonished and touched by an in¬ 
tegrity of which he would doubtless have been incapable ? ” 

“Astonished, yes; touched, no. But he will say, 
‘ This lad may be useful to me.’ Honest people are very 
necessary to those who are not so. And he will pardon 
me my sins, and restore me his custom, of which I think 
a great deal, since it enables me to see Rose, and speak 
to her every day. So you see that without deluding my¬ 
self, I have good reason to be happy. I felt so proud 
and so happy yesterday evening when I was dancing with 
Rose, when she seemed to love me! Well! I recover 
that happiness, without troubling myself as to the mor¬ 
row. That is much: go to, fine Uncle Cadoche! thou 
didst not guess what consolation lay for me in thy iron 
pot! Thou thoughtest to make me rich, and thou makest 
me happy! ” 

“ But, my dear Louis, since you take to Marcelle a 
sum equal to that she wished to sacrifice for you, you 
may now accept the concessions that she offered to 
Bricolin ? ” 

“Me? Never! Do not speak of such a thing. It 
wounds me. I shall be no longer banished from the 
farm, and that is all I want. See how bright and hand¬ 
some this treasure is ! how much comfort for distress, 
and ease for pain, lie in it! Money is good, after all, 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


304 

M. Lemor, confess it! Here, in the hollow of my hand, 
are the lives of five or six poor children ! ” 

“Friend, I see only what is really there—old Brie- 
olin’s tears, and cries, and torture ; and the beggar’s 
avarice, and stupid, degraded life entirely consumed in 
the trembling contemplation of his theft! ” 

“ Ugh! you are right,” said the miller, shocked, and 
casting back his handful of gold into the iron pot. 
“What crimes, anxieties, and lies, what cowardice, and 
fear, and suffering are here ! You are right, money is a 
vile thing; and we here, who are secretly looking at it, 
and counting it, we are like two robbers armed with 
pistols, and in fear of being surprised by other robbers, 
or collared by the police. Out of my sight, accursed ! ” 
cried he, replacing the cover, “ and let us go, friend! 
Joy to us, this is not ours ! ” 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


305 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A RUPTURE. 

A S they approached the valley of the Vauvre, our trav- 
^ ** ellers remarked, in looking towards Blanchemont, 
an immense sheet of heavy smoke, whitened by the rising 
sun. 

“ Look, now ! ” said the miller ; “ see what a fog there 
is over the Vauvre this morning, especially on the side 
where we both always want to look ! It troubles me ; I 
do not see the pointed roofs of my good old little chateau, 
which, from every side, as I am riding about, serve as 
guiding-points to my thoughts.” 

In about ten minutes the smoke, which had been held 
down by the weight of the morning mists, suddenly broke 
away at the foot of the valley, and Grand-Louis, abruptly 
stopping the notary’s horse, said to his companion : 

“It is singular, M. Lemor,— I don’t know whether 
my eyes are blurred this morning, but, look my best, I 
cannot see the red roof of the new building below the tur¬ 
rets of the old chateau ! Yet I am very sure it can be 
seen from here ; I have stopped here more than an hun¬ 
dred times, and I distinguish the trees around it. Ah, 
but look ! the old chateau is all changed ! The turrets 
look lower to me. Where the devil is the roof? Thun¬ 
der crush me ! there is nothing left but the gables ! Stay, 
stay! What is that red spot beside the farm-house ? It is 
fire ! yes, fire ! and all those black things? — M. Lemor, 
you know I told you, when we were at Jeu-les-bois, that 
the sky was reddened, and that there was a fire some¬ 
where. You persisted that it was the burning of pas¬ 
tures, but I knew there was no furze in that direction. 
Look! I am not dreaming! the chateau, the farm, all is 
burned ! — But Rose ! Rose ! — Ah, my God ! And 


20 


THE MILLER OF A NG IB AULT. 


3°6 

Madame Mareelle! and my little Edward ! and Mother 
Bricolin ! my God ! my God ! ” 

And the miller, whipping his horse furiously, galloped 
on towards Blanchemont, without stopping to think 
whether his old Sophie could follow or not. 

As they approached, the signs of the disaster became 
only too certain. Soon they heard of it from those they 
met on the road, and although they were assured that no 
one had perished, both, pale and agitated, urged to the ut¬ 
most their horse, who seemed to them to creep. 

When they reached the foot of the terrace, as the 
poor animal, panting, and covered with foam, could only 
walk up the ascent, they stopped before Pauline’s, and 
sprang from the cabriolet to run faster. At this moment 
Mareelle appeared before their eyes, at the door of the 
cabin. She was pale, but calm, and there were no ves¬ 
tiges of fire on her garments, for she had been occupied 
through the night in attending upon others, without use¬ 
lessly endeavoring to extinguish the flames. Lemor was 
near fainting with joy at seeing her; he took her hand 
without the power of speech. 

u My boy is here, and Rose is at the curate’s,” said 
Mareelle. u She has met with no accident, she is scarcely 
ill, she is happy in spite of her parents’ consternation. 
Nothing is lost in all this but money. It is a slight thing 
compared to the joy that awaits her —” 

“What? how?” said the miller; “I do not under¬ 
stand.” 

“ Go and see her, my friend, nothing prevents you, 
and learn from herself what I will not be the first to 
tell you.” 

Grand-Louis remained a moment stupefied, then ran. 
Lemor entered the cabin with Mareelle, and while Paul¬ 
ine and her husband looked to the horses, he went to the 
bed where Edward was sleeping. The last of the 
Blanchemonts was sweetly reposing upon the pallet of 
the poorest peasant of his domaius. He possessed not 
even a shelter, and the hospitality of indigence was all he 
could now claim. 

“Then he ran no danger?” said Lemor, kissing his 
little hands, moist with gentle warmth. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


307 


u This little creature has good stamina,” said Marcelle, 
with some pride. “ lie has not been ill, he woke in the 
midst of sulfocating smoke, and was not afraid. He has 
passed the night with me, helping and comforting others; 
and, notwithstanding his weakness and ignorance of mis¬ 
fortune, his cares, his caresses, and simple words, have 
been like an angel’s to me, and to all the timorous souls 
who were trembling and crying around us. And I 
dreaded emotion and fright, for his health ! An heroic 
spirit animates this delicate frame. Lemor! he is a 
blessed child, whom God marked, at his birth, for noble 
poverty! ” 

The child awoke at Lemor’s caresses, and recognizing 
him this time more by his tenderness than his features,— 
“ Ah, Henri! ” said he, “ why wouldst thou not speak 
to me when thou madest believe Antoine ? ” 

Marcelle was beginning, with quiet fortitude, to ex¬ 
plain to her lover the new catastrophe in which the fire 
had involved the remainder of her fortune, when M. 
Bricolin, his face convulsed, his clothes in rags, and his 
hands severely burned, rushed iuto the cabin. 

On recovering from his first terror, the farmer had 
worked, with desperate energy and courage, to save his 
cattle and his crops. An hundred times he had nearly 
been a victim to his frantic eagerness; and he had aban¬ 
doned his vain hopes only on finding himself in the midst 
of a heap of ashes. Then discouragement, despair, and 
a sort of fury seized upon his feeble brain. He was 
almost raving ; and rushed distractedly towards Marcelle, 
with confused ideas and embarrassed words. 

“Ah, here you are at last, madam!” said he, in a 
broken voice. U I have been looking for you through all 
the village, and I did not know what had become of you. 
Hark you, Mme. Marcelle! — I have something very 
important to say to you — you may look calm, but all 
this misfortune falls upon you ; all this damage is at your 
cost! ” 

“I know it, M. Bricolin!” answered Marcelle, with 
some impatience ; for the sight of this avaricious man 
was not consoling to her just now. 

“You know it?” replied Bricolin, in a sort of rage. 


308 the miller of angibault. 

“ and I know it, too ! It is your business to rebuild the 
houses and replace the stock at Blanehemont.” 

“And with what, if you please, M. Bricolin?” 

“With your money! Have you not money? Did I 
not give you enough ? ” 

“I have none now, M. Bricolin. The pocket-book 
was burned.” 

“You let my pocket-book burn? the pocket-book 
that I intrusted to you?” cried Bricolin, exasperated, 
and striking his forehead with his fists. “How could 
you be so silly, so stupid, as not to save the pocket-book, 
since you had plenty of time to save your son ? ” 

“I saved Rose, too, M. Bricolin. I carried her out 
of the house in my own arms. Meanwhile, the pocket- 
book was burned. I am not sorry for it.” 

“It is not true —you have it! ” 

“I swear to you solemnly that I have not. The sec¬ 
retary where it was, all the furniture of that chamber, 
was burned while the people were being saved. You 
know this very well; I have told you before, for you 
asked me about it; but you did not hear me, or you do 
not remember.” 

“Ah, yes, I remember,” said the dismayed farmer, 
“but I thought you were deceiving me.” 

“ And why should I deceive you ? Was not the money 
mine ? ” 

“Yours? Then you do not deny that I bought your 
estate from you yesterday evening, that I paid you for it, 
and that it belongs to me ? ” 

“What should make you think that I was capable of 
denying it ? ” 

“Ah! pardon me, pardon me, madam! I have not 
my right head ! ” said the farmer, subdued and calmed. 

“So I see,” said Marcelle, in a contemptuous tone, to 
which he paid no attention. 

“It is all the same, the repairs of the buildings and 
the stock are at your cost,” resumed he, after a short 
silence, in which his ideas became confused anew. 

“One of two things, M. Bricolin,” said Marcelle, 
shrugging her shoulders. “Either you have not bought 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3°9 


the estate, and it is my business to repair the damage, or 
I have sold it to you, and have nothing to do with it; 
choose!” 

“True!” said Bricolin, again sinking into a new 
stupor. Then he resumed quickly, “Oh, yes! I have 
fairly and fully bought and paid ; you cannot deny that. 
I have your deed and receipt, which I took good care to 
save ! My wife has it in her pocket.” 

“Then you are easy, and I too ; for I have also the 
duplicate copy of our deed in my pocket.” 

“But you ought to pay for the damage !” cried Bric¬ 
olin, with dull fury ; “I did not buy your estate without 
buildings and stock. The loss is at least fifty thousand 
francs! ” 

“I know nothing of that, but the disaster took place 
after the sale.” 

“ It was you who set fire to it! ” 

“Very probably!” said Marcelle, with cool disdain, 
“ and I threw in the price of my estate to amuse 
myself! ” 

“Pardon, pardon me, I am ill!” said the farmer ; “to 
lose so much money in one night! —But it is all one, 
Mme. Marcelle, you owe me an indemnity for my mis¬ 
fortune. I have always had misfortune with your family. 
My father was tortured by the chauffeurs, and robbed of 
fifty thousand francs of his own, for a deposit which 
your grandfather left in his charge.” 

“The consequences of that misfortune are irreparable, 
since your father lost his health, both of mind and body, 
by it. But my family is perfectly innocent of the crime 
of the robbers, and as to the loss of your money, it was 
largely made up by my grandfather.” 

“True, he was an excellent master! You should do 
the same ; you ought to compensate me ! ” 

“ You think so much of money, and I so little, M. 
Bricolin, that I would satisfy, you if I were able. But 
you forget that I have lost everything, even to the pitiful 
sum of two thousand francs which I received from the 
sale of my carriage, and my very clothes. My boy can¬ 
not even say at this moment that he owns so much in the 
world as the garments which cover him, for I carried 


3 IQ 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT 


him naked from your house ; and if this woman whom 
you see had not taken him in with holy charity, and 
clothed him with the poor garments of one of her own 
children, I should be forced to beg from you a blouse and 
a pair of wooden shoes for him. Leave me then quiet, 
I beseech you ; I have strength to bear my own mis¬ 
fortunes, but your rapacity disgusts and wearies me.” 

“Enough, sir! ” said Lemor, who could no longer re¬ 
strain himself. “Go — leave this lady in peace !” 

Bricolin did not hear this apostrophe. He had sunk 
upon a chair, only so far alive to Marcelle’s utter destitu¬ 
tion as it deprived him of all hope of extorting anything 
from her. “So,” cried he despairingly, striking his fists 
upon the table, “ I thought I had made a good bargain last 
night; I had bought Blanchemont for two hundred and 
fifty thousand francs; and now this morning I have lost 
fifty thousand francs, in buildings and cattle! That 
makes the estate,” said he, sobbing, “cost me three 
hundred thousand francs, as you would have had it! ” 

“ It does not seem to me to be my fault, or that I 
profit by it,” coldly answered Marcelle, whose indigna¬ 
tion fell on seeing Lemor’s, and who controlled herself to 
oblige him to be calm. 

“And that is all your misfortune, M. Bricolin?” 
simply asked Pauline, astonished at all that she had 
heard. “Truly, I should think myself well off! This 
poor lady has lost everything ; you are still rich, as rich 
as you were yesterday evening, and you ask something 
of her ? That is queer enough ! If Blanchemont costs 
you, fire and all, only three hundred thousand francs, it 
is still mighty cheap. I know many who would have 
given more.” 

“ Pray what are you talking about? ” replied Bricolin. 
“ Hold your tongue ! you are but a fool and a gossip.” 

“ Thanks, sir! ” said Pauline ; and turning proudly 
to Marcelle—“it is all the same, madam,” she said; 
“ since you have lost all, you may stay with me as long 
as you wish, and share my black bread. I will not re¬ 
proach you, aud will never send you away.” 

“ Listen, sir ! ” said Lemor, “ and blush !” 

“ You — I don’t know who you are !” returned Brie- 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3 11 

olin, in a rage. 44 Nobody here knows you ; you look 
as much like a miller as I like a bishop. But you shall 
not go far, my lad! I will send the police to demand 
your papers, and if you have none, we shall see ! This 
tire was plainly kindled on purpose, everybody will swear 
to that, and the king’s attorney is here to make out a 
warrant. You are friends with a man who owes me a 
grudge, and that’s enough ! ” 

u Ah ! this is too much ! ” said the indignant Lemor ; 
44 you are the meanest of wretches, and if you do not 
leave this place instantly, I will find means to make 
you.” 

“ Stay ! ” said Marcelle, seizing Lemor’s arm. “ Have 
pity on this man, he has lost his senses! Be indulgent 
to misfortune, however base it show itself; follow my 
example, Lemor ; my patience is equal to my situation.” 

Bricolin did not hear. He held his head between his 
hands, and groaned like a mother who has lost her child. 

“And I who would never insure, because it was too 
dear,” cried he, in a lamentable whine ; 44 and my oxen, 
my poor oxen, who were so fat and handsome! A lot 
of sheep worth two thousand francs, that I would not sell 
at the fair of St. Christopher ! ” 

Marcelle could not restrain a smile, and her lofty good 
sense controlled Lemor’s indignation. 

44 At any rate,” said the farmer, suddenly rising, 
“your miller shall not have my daughter! ” 

44 In that case, you shall not have my estate. The 
deed is clear, and the condition positive.” 

“We will go to law ! ” 

44 As you please.” 

44 Oh, you cannot go to law ! That needs money, and 
you have none. And then you would have to restore 
me the payment, and how would you do that? Besides, 
your fine condition is null; and as for the miller, I am 
going to begin by having him arrested and put in prison ; 
for I am sure it is he who set fire to my house, out of 
revenge for my treatment of him yesterday. All the 
village will testify to how he threatened me — and this 
gentleman here—enough! Help! help! the police!” 
and he rushed out in absolute frenzy. 


3 12 


THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


THE CHAPEL. 


A NXIOUS for the miller and for Lemor, who might 
be disagreeably, if not dangerously, involved by the 
consequences of Bricolin’s blind revenge, Marcelle in¬ 
duced her lover to conceal himself, and Pauline was just 
going to warn Grand-Louis to do the same, when sud¬ 
denly all the people on the terrace, who were standing in 
groups and talking over the late disaster, were seen to re 
assemble and run towards the farm. 

“ I am sure they have done it already ! ” cried Pauline, 
weeping. “ They have laid hands already on poor 
Grand-Louis! ” 

Lemor, hearkening only to his friendship and courage, 
left the hut and flew towards the terrace. Marcelle, 
frightened, followed him, leaving Edward to the care of 
her hostess’s eldest daughter. 

When they entered the court of the farm, Marcello 
and Lemor were shocked at the sight of the tottering 


piles of blackened ruins, the ground soaked with water, 
which looked like ink, and the crowd of weary, wet, 
burnt, and spectre-like laborers, who were even now pre¬ 
paring for new fatigue. The fire had just broken out 
afresh in a little isolated chapel, situated between the 
farm-house and the old chateau. 

This new accident seemed incomprehensible; for this 
building had remained untouched till now, and if a spark 
had fallen upon it during the conflagration, the fire would 
not have smouldered so long among the dried peas con¬ 
tained there. Yet the flames broke from the interior, 
as if an implacable hand had carried its daring so far as 
to strive before all eyes, and in broad day, to destroy the 
last building on the estate. 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


3*3 

u Let the chapel burn ! ” cried M. Bricolin, foaming 
with rage; “run after the incendiary! He must be 
there, he cannot be far. It is Grand-Louis, I am sure! 
I have proof! Look in the warren! Surround the 
warren ! ” 

M. Bricolin was little aware that while he was thus 
directing public feeling against the miller, the latter, for¬ 
getful and careless of what was passing without, was at 
the curate’s, kneeling beside the large chair in which 
Rose had been placed, and receiving from her lips the 
confession of her love, and the news of the engagement 
entered into by her father. In the general confusion, 
the curate, and even his housekeeper, had mingled with 
the busy laborers ; her grandmother alone remained with 
Rose; and the young lovers, lost in the purest rapture, 
had entirely forgotten the agitating events taking place 
around them. 

A circle was formed about the chapel, and the engines 
were directed towards it, when M. Bricolin, who had 
advanced to the door, shrunk back horrified, and fell 
against one of his farm-boys, who could scarcely support 
him. This chapel, which had formerly been attached to 
the old chateau, still, to an antiquarian eye, possessed 
beautiful remains of Gothic carving. But so old an edi¬ 
fice could not long sustain the intensity of the heat. 
The flames burst through the windows, and their delicate 
ornaments were beginning to crack off, when the half¬ 
open door was abruptly pushed from within, and the ma¬ 
niac came out, a small lantern in one hand, and a wisp 
of burning straw in the other. She was slowly retiring, 
after having given the finishing touch to her work of de¬ 
struction ; she walked gravely on, her eyes bent on the 
ground, seeing no one, and entirely occupied with the 
enjoyment of her long-contemplated and coolly-executed 
vengeance. 

An over-conscientious policeman went straight up to 
her, and stopped her by taking hold of her arm. Then 
first perceiving the crowd who surrounded her, she thrust 
her blazing straw into the face of the officer, who, sur¬ 
prised at this unexpected defence, was forced to let her 


3*4 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


go. Instantly recovering her impetuous agility, with a. 
look of hatred and fury, and uttering confused impreca¬ 
tions, she darted into the chapel, as if to hide herself. 
Several attempted, but no ODe dared to follow her. She 
crossed the flames with the ease of a salamander, and 
climbed the little spiral staircase which led to the roof. 
There she appeared at a skylight, and was seen to urge 
on the fire, which gained too slowly to satisfy her, and 
which soon surrounded her on every side. They tried in 
vain to wet the roof with the engines. It had been 
lately repaired, and covered with zinc. The water ran 
off, and scarcely penetrated at all. Thus the fire con¬ 
sumed the interior, and the unfortunate Bricoline, slowly 
burning, must have endured extreme torture. But she 
appeared not to feel it, and was heard singing a dancing 
tune, which she had loved in her youth, to which she had 
doubtless often danced with her lover, and which re¬ 
curred to her memory at the moment of death. Not a 
groan was heard from her ; deaf to the cries and suppli¬ 
cations of her mother, who wrung her hands, and was 
only withheld by force from rushing to her, she sang for 
a long time ; then appearing at the window once more, 
she recognized her father. 

“Aha, M. Bricolin!” cried she to him, u these days 
of ours are fine times for you ! ” 

These were her last words. When the fire was sub¬ 
dued, her whitened bones were found on the pavement of 
the chapel. 

This fearful death completely distracted Bricolin, and 
destroyed the courage of his wife. They thought no 
longer of arresting any one, and during the entire day 
they were wholly forgetful of Rose, Mother Bricolin, and 
her old husband. Shut up at the curate’s, M. and Mme. 
Bricolin would see no one, and emerged only when they 
had exhausted together all the bitterness of their grief. 


THE MILLER OF ANG1BAULT. 


3 T 5 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


CONCLUSION. 


jV/l*ARCELLE had enough presence of mind to foresee 
that it would be dangerous for Rose, ill and shaken 
by so many emotions, to hear of the deplorable end of 
her sister. She suggested to the miller to put her imme¬ 
diately into the notary’s cabriolet, and take her to his 
mill, with her grandmother and the infirm old man, from 
whom the good woman would not be separated. She 
herself, leaning upon Lemor, who carried Edward in his 
arms, followed them at a little distance. 

For several days Rose had a return of fever every 
evening. Her friends did not leave her for an instant. 
They concealed from her the funeral of the beggar 
Cadoche, who was buried with all the ceremony he de¬ 
sired, and they left her in ignorance of the death of the 
maniac till she was able to endure the intelligence ; but 
it was long before she knew all the shocking circum¬ 
stances attending it. 

Marcelle consulted M. Tailland upon the value of the 
deed drawn up with Bricolin. 

The notary’s opinion was not favorable. Marriage, 
being a matter of public institution, could not be made a 
clause in a deed of sale. In the case of illegal clauses, 
the sale remains good, and the said clauses are reputed 
unwritten. Such are the terms of the law. M. Bricolin 
knew them before the signature of the deed. 

At the end of three days the farmer appeared at the 
mill, pale, haggard, having lost half his flesh, and even 
the desire to drink himself into better spirits. He seemed 
incapable of anger; still, as they did not know what his 
intentions might be in coming to Angibault, and as Rose 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


316 

was yet very weak, Marcelle trembled lest he should re¬ 
call her with abusive words or manuers. Everybody 
was uneasy, and they all went out to meet him, so as to 
prevent his entrance unless he announced pacific inten¬ 
tions. 

He began by coldly intimating to his mother that she 
was to bring his daughter home immediately. lie had 
hired a house in the village of Blanchemont, and was 
about to commeuce the work of rebuilding. “ But my 
being ill lodged,” said he, “ is no reason for my being de¬ 
prived of the society of my daughter, nor for her re¬ 
fusing her services to her mother. Only an unnatural 
child would do so.” So speaking, Bricolin cast surly 
looks on the miller. It was plain that he wished to 
withdraw his daughter quietly from his house, feeling 
that he could afterwards give vent to his rancor, and 
accuse Grand-Louis, at need, of having carried her off. 

u That is right, that is right,” said Mother Bricolin, 
who had undertaken to reply. “Rose has several times 
asked to return to her father and mother, but as she is 
yet ill, we have prevented her. I think she may be well 
enough to-day to go with thee, and I am ready to accom¬ 
pany her with my old man, if thou hast a place for us. 
Only give Mme. Marcelle time to prepare the child for 
the surprise and pleasure of seeing thee, and do thou 
come to my chamber, Bricolin; I have something to say 
to thee in private.” 

The old woman led him to the room which she shared 
with the mill-dame. Marcelle and Rose had been in¬ 
stalled in the miller’s. Lemor and Grand-Louis slept, 
rejoicingly, in the hay-loft. 

“Bricolin,” said the good woman, “thou wilt have 
great expense with these repairs. Where wilt thou get 
the money? ” 

“What is that to you, mother? you have none to give 
me,” answered Bricolin, roughly ; “ I am short, just now, 
it is true, but I shall borrow. I shall have no trouble in 
finding credit.” 

“Yes, but with heavy interest, as is the custom, and 
then when you come to repay, you are already involved 


THE MILLER OE ANGIBAULT. 


3 l 7 


in new expenses that are necessary and unavoidable. 
That is a constraint and an incumbrance, and one never 
knows how to get away from it.” 

u Well, what would you have me do? Can I stow my 
next year’s harvest in my shoe, and shelter my cattle un 
der a broom ? ” 

“ What will all that cost ? ” 

“ The Lord knows ! ” 

“But about — ? ” 

“ From forty-five to fifty thousand francs, at the least; 
fifteen to. eighteen thousand for the buildings, as much 
for the stock, and as much for what I lose of my crops 
and of the year’s profits ! ” 

“ Yes, that makes about 50,000 francs. That was 
just my estimate. Well! Say, Bricolin, if I gave thee 
that sum, what wouldst thou do for me?” 

“ You ? ” cried Bricolin, his eyes recovering their ac¬ 
customed fire ; “ have you, then, savings unbeknown to 
me, or are you doting? ” 

“ I am not doting. I have 50,000 francs in gold, 
which I will give thee, if thou wilt let me marry Rose as 
I like ” 

“ Ah ! here it is ! always the miller! All the women 
are crazy after that bear ; even old souls of eighty.” 

“ Good, very good ! Jest, but accept.” 

“ And where is this money?” 

“ I have given it to Grand-Louis to keep,” said the old 
woman, who knew, that if her son saw it, he was capable 
of forcibly snatching it from her hands in his ecstacy. 

And why to Grand-Louis, and not to me or my wife? 
Then you mean to make him a gift of it, if I do not act 
according to your will?” 

“ The money of others is safe in his hands,” said the 
old woman, “ for he had this without my knowledge, and 
brought it to me when I thought it lost forever. It is my 
husband’s, you understand ; but since you have had him 
set aside in law, and we have sunk our property for the 
benefit of the survivor, it is at my disposal.” 

“But this is a recovery, then? Impossible! you are 


3iS THE miller of angibault. 

making a fool of me, and it is too good in me to listen to 
you! ” 

“ Listen ! ” said his mother ; “ it is a queer story.” 

And she told her son all the story of Cadoche and his 
legacy. 

“ And the miller brought you back this money, when 
he might have said nothing about it?” cried the farmer, 
quite confounded. “ Really, that was very honest, yes, 
really very handsome , on his part! He must have a 
present.” 

u There is but one present to make him : Rose’s hand, 
since she has already gifted him with her heart.” 

“ But I will give no dowry! ” cried Bricolin. 

“ That is understood : who asked thee for it?” 

“ Show me this money ! ” 

Mother Bricolin took her son to the miller, who showed 
him the iron pot and its contents. 

“ And by this means,” said the farmer, dazzled, and as 
it were resuscitated, by the sight of so much coined gold, 
“ Mme. de Blanchemont is not absolutely destitute?” 

“ Thanks to God!” 

“ And to thee, Grand-Louis ! ” 

“ Thanks to Father Cadoche’s whim.” 

“ And thou, what dost thou inherit? ” 

“ Three thousand francs, of which a third is destined 
to Pauline, and the rest to the establishment of two other 
families near me. We will all work together, and re¬ 
ceive the profits in common.” 

“ That is stupid ! ” 

“ No, it is useful and just.” 

“ But why not keep these thousand crowns for wedding 
presents for — thy wife ? ” 

“ They would smell of stolen money ; and even if it were 
only the produce of charity, would you, who are so proud, 
like to have Rose wear dresses that were paid for with 
copper coins, given as alms to a beggar? ” 

“ There would be no need of telling where they came 
from! Well, then, when shall the wedding be, Grand- 
Louis?” 

“ To-morrow, if you will.” 



THE MILLER OF ANGIE A UL T. 


3*9 

“ Let the banns be published to-morrow, and give me 
the money to-day; I have a use for it.” 

“ No, no ! no, no ! ” cried his mother. “ Thou shalt 
have it ou the wedding-day. Fair play, fair play, my 
boy! ” 

The sight of the gold had revived M. Bricolin. He 
sat down to table, drank with the miller, embraced his 
daughter, and, when about half-seas over, remounted his 
nag, to go and set his masons to work. 

“ In this way,” said he to himself, “ I still have 
Blanchemont for 250,000 francs, and even for 200,000, 
since I give no dowry with my last daughter I ” • 

“We too, Lemor, we must build,” said Marcelle to her-, 
lover, when Bricolin had gone. “We are rich ; we have 
enough to raise a pretty, rustic cottage, where our child 
shall have a good education ; for thou wilt be his precep¬ 
tor, and the miller will teach him his trade. Why should 
he not be at once an active workman and an educated 
man ? ” 

“ And I depend upon beginning with myself,” said 
Lemor. “ I am very ignorant; I must study evenings. 
I am mill-boy — I like to be mill-boy — and I will be 
that in the day-time. What fine health this life will give 
our Edward! ” 

“ Well, Mme. Marcelle,” said Grand-Louis, taking 
Lemor’s hand, “you who told me, the first time you came 
here — eight days ago, nor more nor less — that your 
happiness would consist in having a little house, neat and 
clean, with a thatched roof, and climbing vines like mine, 
a simple, easy life like mine, a son, who should be busy 
and not over-dull, like me! — And all this here, upon 
our river Vauvre, which has the honor to please you, and 
beside us, who are good neighbors ! ” 

“And all this in common,” said .Marcelle, “for I 
take it no otherwise ! ” 

“ Oh! impossible! your part, at present, is much 
greater than mine.” 

“You calculate ill, miller,” said Lemor; “thine and 


320 


THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 


mine, between friends, is as great an enormity as to say 
that two and two make five.” 

“ Then I am rich and learned ! ” returned the miller, 
“ for I have Rose’s heart, and you will talk with me 
everyday! Did not I tell you, M. Lemor, that there 
would be a miracle for me, and that all would come 
right? But I did not reckon the while unon Uncle Ca- 
doche! ” 

“ What makes thee dance so, alochon ? ” said Edward. 

u My child,” answered the miller, lifting him high in 
his arms, u while throwing my nets, I have caught, in the 
clearest of the water, a little angel, who has brought me 
happiness; and, in the muddiest, an old devil of an un¬ 
cle, whom I shall perhaps be able to get out of purgatory ! ” 


GEORGE SAND IN ENGLISH. 


-«-. 

THE BAGPIPERS. 

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 


Messrs. Roberts Brothers have begun the publication of a series of 
novels by George Sand, translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley, whose 
versions of Balzac’s novels, published by the same enterprising house, have 
won for her so much deserved repute. The first volume is a translation of 
‘ Les Maitres Sonneurs,” under the title “ The Bagpipers.” The other- 
stories of the series are : “ Mauprat,” “Antonia,” Monsieur Sylvestre,” 
“ The Snow Man,” and The Miller of Angibault.” The list includes the 
best novels of their famous author, and those least reprehensible for their 
moral tone; though, even at her very worst, George Sand is mildness itself 
compared with some who have followed after, beginning where she left oft', 
it is too late to cavil at George Sand as a literary artist. Her rank among 
the great writers of fiction is assured and permanent. At her best, she 
towers immeasurably above most of her French contemporaries, and in her 
special quality of art, is only rivalled abroad by George Eliot, widely 
diverging though the two writers may be in their views of life. “ The 
Bagpipers” is a charming book, masterly in its delineation of character,and 
keenly interesting in its philosophy. Grace, delicacy, and refinement of 
style are mingled in it with power, thought, and world-knowledge, and the 
passions are depicted with the hand of a master. The translator has done 
her work with exceptional skill, with perhaps, even closer fidelity to the 
spirit of her original than she achieved in her Balzac translations. The 
volumes are printed and bound uniform in size and style with “ Balzac’s 
Works,” and can scarcely fail to win as large favor as attended the latter. 
— Saturday Evening Gazette. * 

It is a spirited story and full of incident, rich in its graphic delineations 
of positive and interesting personality, and having a lofty moral tone 
The charming narratives of the loves of these simple, worthy souls, and 
the sterling manhood and noble womanhood of the principal people in the 
story, are enough to render the book alike popular and useful, — Congre- 
gationalist. 

One volume, 12mo, half Russia, uniform with Bal¬ 
zac’s Works. Price, $1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers , 

BOSTON, MASS. 





GEORGE SAND'S NOVELS 


The excellence of George Sand, as we understand it, lies in her compre* 
hension of the primitive elements of mankind. She has conquered her 
way into the human heart; and whether it is at peace or at war is the same 
to her, for she is mistress of all its moods. No woman before ever painted 
the passions and the emotions with such force and fidelity, and with sucli 
consummate art. Whatever else she may be, she is always an artist. — 
Putnam's Magazine. 

Roberts Brothers propose to publish a series of translations of George 
Sand’s better novels. We can hardly say that all are worth appearing in 
English ; but it is certain that the “ better ” list will comprise a good many 
which are worth translating, and among these is “ Mauprat,”— though by 
;»o means the best of them. Written to show the possibility of constancy 
in man, a love inspired before and continuing through marriage, it is itself 
a contradiction to a good many of the popular notions respecting the 
author, —who is generally supposed to be as indifferent to the sanctities 
of the marriage relation as was her celebrated ancestor, Augustus of 
Saxony. . . . The translation is admirable. It is seldom that one reads 
such good English in a work translated from any language. — Old and 
New. 

MAUPRAT. 

ANTONIA. 

MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE. 

THE SNOW MAN. 

THE MILLER OF ANG-IBAULT. 
THE BAGPIPERS. 

NANON. 

7 volumes, i 2 mo. Half Russia. Uniform in size and style 
with “Balzac’s Works.” 

Price, $1.50 per Volume. 


Sold everywhere. Mailed , post-paid , on receipt of the advertised price y 
by the Publishers , 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 




BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


“ It is quite possible that many French students may be somewhat puzzled to 
encounter that story of Balzac’s which they have always known under the title of 
4 Un Menage de Gargon, in the strange and unfamiliar appellation ‘The Two 
Brothers.’ The explanation is simple enough, and it is interesting as illustrating 
ot? 2 of Balzac’s peculiarities. A number of his books underwent manv changes 
before they crystallized permanently in the edition definitive. Some of them were 
begun in a newspaper or review, carried along some distance in that way, then 
dropped, to appear presently enlarged, altered, ‘grown,’ as is said of children, 
‘ out of knowledge.’ The ‘ History of Balzac’s Works,’ by Charles de Lovenjoul, 
gives all the details of these bewildering metamorphoses. The first title of the 
present story was that which the American translator has selected, namely, ‘ Les 
deux Fr&res.’ The first part of it appeared in La Presse in 1841 with this desig¬ 
nation, and in 1843 it was published in two volumes without change of title. The 
second part (now incorporated with the first) appeared in La Presse in 1842, under 
the title ‘ Un Menage de Garcon en Province,’ and figured as the continuation of 
‘ The Two Brothers ’ In 1843 the two parts were brought together, and the 
whole published as ‘ Un Menage de Gargon en Province.’ Balzac, however, was 
not yet satisfied. Having announced yet another title, namely, ‘ Le Bonhomme 
Rouget,’ he abandoned that, cancelled both the former ones, and called the tale, 
in the definitive edition of his works, ‘ La Rabouilleuse.’ after Flore Brazier, one 
of the characters in it. There can be no doubt that Miss Wormeley has chosen 
the most apposite of all these titles. The real subject is the career of the iwo 
brothers, Philippe and Joseph Bridau.”— New York Tribune. 

“ Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston have added to the excellent translations 
they have already published of several of Balzac’s most famous novels a translation 
of ‘The Two Brothers,’ which forms a sequence in ‘Scenes from Provincial Life.' 
As with the other novels that have preceded it, nothing but the highest praise can 
be awarded the work of the translator. It gives to the reader of English a remark¬ 
able rendering of Balzac’s nervous, idiomatic French ; and it presents the novel- 
reader a novel that must challenge his comparisons with the popular novels of tli; 
times. One cannot read far in Balzac’s pages without feeling refreshed by contact 
with a vigorous intellect. In this story he attempted to display two opposite type* 
of character in brothers, which had been inherited by them from different ances* 
tors. In order to do this effectively he introduces in a few opening pages these 
ancestors, before coming to the real action of the story. . . . There is no plot, nt 
intrigue, no aim whatever except to depict the characters of Joseph, Philippe, tin 
mother, and the immediate friends about them. All this is done, however, with 
such vivid reality that it fascinates the attention. It is like watching an artist de 
velop with telling colors a great breathing, living picture. It is, in its way, a stud* 
of evolution. ‘ Perhaps I have never drawn a picture,’ said Balzac, in reference 
to the book, * that shows more plainly how essential to European society is the 
indissoluble marriage bond, how fatal the results of feminine weakness, how great 
the dangers arising from selfish interests when indulged without restraint.’ There 
are many Philippes in the world outside of France; the shrewd, selfish, swagger¬ 
ing Philippes who march through life rough-shod, regardless of kindred, friends, 
or foes. Here is the man painted to the life for all time, and any country. Here 
also is the woman, with all her simplicity and weakness, who always and ever fails 
to gauge rightly this sort of man ; who is doomed to be his slave and victim. 
Balzac met them in his Parisian world forty years ago, and here they take their 

f daces in his comedy of human life. While there are such strong portraitures in 
iterature as these novels, it is not easy to understand how so many weak, flimsy, 
pretentious ones find any readers at all. Let us have Balzac in excellent transla¬ 
tion by all means, —all that remarkable series that are still quite as good as new 
to the great majority of the English-speaking people.” — Brooklyn Citizen. 

-•- 

One hand son e 12 mo volume, uniform •with “ PI re Goriot," “ The 
Duchesse de Langeais," “Cesar Birotteauf “Eugenie Grandetf “Cousin 
Pons," and “ The Country DoctorHalf morocco. French style. 
Price . Si. 50, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers , Boston 




BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


THE ALKAHEST; 

Or, The House of Claes. 

* -- 

Among the novels of Honore de Balzac “ La Recherche de l’Absolu ” has 
always counted one of the masterpieces. The terrible dominion of a fixed idea 
was never shown with more tremendous force than is depicted in the absorption of 
all the powers, the mind, and body of Balthazar Claes by the desire to discover 
the Absolute, the “ Alkahest.” The lovely old mansion at Duai, its sumptuous 
furniture, its priceless pictures, its rare bric-a-brac, the pyramid of costly tulips 
that glowed in the garden, are painted with a touch rich and vivid, which shows 
Balzac at his best. This great novelist was always minute and exhaustive in his 
descriptions; but in this story the material in which he worked was of a sort to 
arouse his enthusiasm, and he evidently revels in the attractive setting which its 
events demand. The tale itself is penetrating and powerful. — Boston Courier. 

The “Alkahest” is a strong story, and all through it is to be felt that sub¬ 
current of vitalizing energy which in so many of Balzac’s books seems to propel 
the principal characters as in a special atmosphere, hurrying them with a kind of 
fiery yet restrained impatience toward the doom assigned them. . . . The scien¬ 
tific and mystical features of the story are cleverly handled. Balzac made deep 
inquests before writing his philosophical studies, as he called them, and he was 
always rather ahead than abreast of the thoughts of his time. The central prob¬ 
lem dealt with here is, of course, as complete a mystery to-day as when the 
“ Recherche de l’Absolu ” was written. . . . Miss Wormeley has made a charac¬ 
teristically excellent translation of a book which presents many unusual difficulties 
and abstruse points. It is rarely possible to assert with any truth that an English 
version of a French book may be read by the public with nearly as much profit 
and apprehension as the original; but it is the simple fact in this instance, and it 
is certainly remarkable enough to deserve emphasis. — New York Tribune. 

He who would know the art of novel-writing may go to Balzac and find an art 
that is natural, simple, and beautiful in its exercise, and is directed to both thought 
and feeling in behalf of humanity, and that realizes something good and enduring 
He may look without much trouble at “ The Alkahest; or, The House of Claes,” 
one of the most illustrative of the author’s method and aim, and excelling in 
philosophical analysis and in philosophical value. 

In this work Balzac has opposed the heart and intellect in a contest amid th 
conditions of social life, and sought to reveal their comparative nature and influ 
ence, siding, although a remarkable example himself of intellectual development 
and force, in favor of the heart, — that Flemish heart which is ideal of all that is 
powerful for good and happiness in domestic life, and determines Flemish charao 
ter so strongly that the qualities of that character impress themselves fixedly i« 
Flemish painting and architecture- — Sunday Globe , Boston. 

One more scene in Balzac’s wonderful “ Comedy of Human Life.” It is “ The 
Alkahest; or, The House of Claesj” the greatest of the “philosophical studies.” 
It tells of the mad, persistent, vain endeavors of Balthazar, a scientist, to dis¬ 
cover the Absolute. Through years he squanders his estate in fruitless experi¬ 
ments. It is a drama that slowly chills the blood. Then comes the finale. 
“ Suddenly the dying man raised himself by his wrists, and cast on his frightened 
children a look which struck like lightning ; the hairs that fringed the bald head 
stirred, the wrinkles quivered, the features were illumined with spiritual fires, a 
breath passed across that face and rendered it sublime. He raised a hand 
clenched in fury, and uttered with a piercing cry the famous word of Archimedes, 

4 Eureka!’ — I have found.” It is the way Balthazar found the Absolute.— 
Philadelphia Press. 


One h(indsome 12 ??io volume , uniform with “ Pere Goriotf “ The 
Duchesse de Langeaisf “ Cesar Birotteaufi “ Eugenie Grandetf 
“ Cousin Ponsf “ The Country Doctor f and “ The Too Brothers?* 
Bound in half morocco, French style. Price , $ 1 . 50 . 

ROBERTS PR OTHERS. Publishers. BoPTOK. 





liALZAC IN ENGLISH 


-»- 

COUSIN BETTE. 


TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 


He [Balzac] does not make Vice the leading principle of life. The most terrible 
punishment invariably awaits transgressors. . . Psychologically considered, 
Cousin Bette ” with the “ Peau de Chagrin ” and “ The Alkahest ” are the most 

E owerful of all Balzac’s studies. The marvellous acquaintance this romance-writer 
ad with all phases and conditions of French men and women has never been 
more strongly accentuated. For a French romance presenting difficulties in 
translation, Miss Wormeley’s work is excellent. Its faithfulness is even remark¬ 
able. We can hardly conceive that after this series is completed Balzac will 
remain unknown or unappreciated by American readers. — New York Times. 

Balzac aspired to paint French life, especially Parisian life, in all its aspects,— 
“ the great modern monster with its every face,” to use his own words ; and in no 
one of his novels is his insight keener, his coloring bolder, or his disclosures of the 
corruptions of city life more painfully realistic, than in “ Cousin Bette.” . . . Not 
one of the admirably rendered series shows more breadth, skill, and sympathy 
with every characteristic of the great French author than does this. And it is 
quite a marvel of translation.— The American , Philadelphia. 

’T is true the book is not for babes, but he must have strange views of innocence 
who would ignore the influence for good inherent in such a work. Iguorance con¬ 
stitutes but a sorry shield against the onslaughts of temptation. It is w ! ell if wis¬ 
dom can be so cheaply got as by the perusal of the book. — A merican Hebrew. 

It is an awful picture, but it is emphatically a work of genius. ... It cannot 
be said that “Cousin Bette” is a book for those who like only optimistic presen¬ 
tations of life. It is a study in morbid pathology ; an inquiry into the working of 
passions and vices, the mischief actually caused by what in all human societies is 
too patent and too constantly in evidence to be denied or ignored. . . He [Bal¬ 
zac] must be judged by the scientific standard, and from that point of view there 
can be no hesitation in declaring “ Cousin Bette ” a most powerful work. — New 
York Tribune. 

And there is much in the characters that is improper and fortunately counter to 
our civilization; still the tone concerning these very things is a healthy one, and 
Balzac’s belief in purity and goodness, his faith in the better part of humanity, is 
shown in the beautiful purity of Madame Hulot, and the lovely chastity of Hor- 
tense. In “Cousin Bette,” as in all Balzac’s works, he manifests a familiarity 
with the ethics of life which has gained for him the exalted position as the greatest 
of French novelists. — St. Paul Dispatch. 

-♦- 

OnB handsome \2mo volume , uniform with “ Pitre Goriotf '•'‘The 
Duchesse de Langeaisf “ Cesar Birottcauf “ Eugenie Grandct," 
“ Cousin Pons,” “ The Country Doctor “ The Two Brothers ,” “ The 
Alkahest ,” “ The Magic Skin,” and “ Modeste Mignon .” Bound in half 
morocco, French Style. Price , #1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 






BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


The Magic Skin. 

(LA PEAU DE CHAGRIN.) 

TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 

- ♦ - 

“The Magic Skin” is a great novel,—great in its conception, great in its 
3/ecution, and great in the impression it leaves upon the reader’s mind. Those 
wtio deny that Balzac is a moral teacher will retract their opinion after reading this 
powerful allegory. It is a picturesque representation of the great moral truth that 
in life we have to pay for every excess we enjoy. In the gradual shrinking of the 
“‘Magic Skin” we see the inevitable law that by uncontrolled dissipation of body 
or mind we use up our physical strength and exhaust our vitality. In that beauti¬ 
ful, cold, fascinating character, Fedora, the writer shows us the glittering world of 
fashion and frivolity which men pursue vainly and find to their cost only dust and 
ashes. In the gentle, loving, and devoted Pauline, Balzac represents the lasting 
and pure pleasures of domestic life. But in Raphael’s short enjoyment of them 
we see the workings of that inflexible law, “ Whatever ye sow that shall ye also 
reap.” In the vivid, striking, realistic picture of Parisian life which Balzac pre¬ 
sents to us in “ The Magic Skin,” the writer had a conscious moral purpose. We 
know of no more awful allegory in literature. —Boston Transcript. 

The story is powerful and original; but its readers will be most affected by its 
marvellous knowledge of human nature, and the deep-cutting dissection of charac¬ 
ter which makes the attempts of our own analytical novelists appear superficial 
and experimental. Life in all classes of the Paris of Louis Philippe’s time is por¬ 
trayed m the strongest lights and shadows, and with continual flashes of w'it, 
satire, and sarcasm which spare neither politician, philosopher, priest, poet, jour¬ 
nalist, artist, man of the world, nor woman of the w-orld. Through a maze of 
heterogeneous personages Raphael, the hero, is carried, pursued by the relentless 
Magic Skin, which drives him mercilessly to his doom The vices of high society 
are laid bare ; but there is also a beautiful exposition of purity in the humble life 
of Pauline, who is the good angel of the story. In translating “ La Peau de Cha¬ 
grin” Miss Wormeley has done work that is at once skilful and discreet. It is a 
man’s book, virile though not vulgar, and exposing prominences in French social 
views such as most writers veil in obscurities. Here all is frankly and honestly 
shown, but by a man of genius, who had no more need of prudish hypocrisy than 
Shakespeare. 

Mr. Parsons’s thoughtful preface is a fitting introduction to the most wonder¬ 
ful of all Balzac’s romances. It is not a whit too strong for Mr. Parsons to write 
that, saving Shakespeare, ‘‘no man could have been better fitted to examine men¬ 
tal processes, to gauge their effects, to estimate their significance, and to define 
their nature and scope ’’ than Balzac. If Balzac had been a German, and not a 
Frenchman of the French, this book of his would be as much of an epoch-maker 
as Goethe’s “ Faust.” It may take years before the fuller appreciation of “ La 
Peau de Chagrin ” comes, but it is a study of life which will be studied in cen¬ 
turies yet to come.— New York Times- 


One handsome 12 mo volume , uniform with u Pitre Goriot ,” “ The 
Duchesse de Langeaisf “ Cesar Birotteau," “ Eugenie Grandet ,” 
“ Cousin PojisP “ The Country Doctor ,” “ The Two Brothers “ The 
Alkahest ,” and “ Modeste Mignon." Bound in half morocco, French 
style. Price , £1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 






BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


Modeste Mignon. 

TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 


In “Modeste Mignon ” we still have that masterly power of analysis, keen, 
incisive, piercing superficiality and pretence, as a rapier pierces a doublet, but we 
have in addition the puritv and sweetness of a genuine light comedy, —a comedy 
which has for its central object the delineation of the mysteries of a young girl’s 
mind. 

As a whole, “ Modeste Mignon ” is not only a masterpiece of French art, but 
a masterpiece of that master before whom later novelists must pale their ineffec¬ 
tual fires. As the different examples of Balzac’s skill are brought before the pub¬ 
lic through the excellent translations by Miss Wormeley, none competent to judge 
can fail to perceive the power of that gigantic intellect which projected and carried 
out the scheme of the Comedie Humaine,nor fail to understand the improvement 
in literature that would result if Balzac’s methods and aims were carefully studied 
by all who aspire to the name of novelist. —New York Home Journal. 

The public owes a debt of gratitude to the industrious translator of Balzac’s 
masterpieces. They follow one another with sufficient rapidity to stand in striking 
contrast with each other. The conscientious reader of them cannot but lay down one 
after another with an increasing admiration for their author’s marvellous grasp upon 
the great social forces which govern the thought and actions of men. In “ Modeste 
Mignon,” as in “ Eugenie Grandet,” we find that the tremulous vibrations of first 
love in the heart of a young and pure-minded girl are not deemed unworthy of this 
great artist’s study. The delicate growth of a sentiment which gradually expanded 
into a passion, and which was absolutely free from any taint of sensuality, is 
analyzed in “ Modeste Mignon” with consummate skill. The plot of this book 
is far from extraordinary. It is even commonplace. But where in these days 
shall we find another author who can out of such a simple plot make a story like 
the one before us? The many-sidedness of Balzac’s genius is widely acknowl¬ 
edged; but there are probably few people among those whose acquaintance with 
his writings has been necessarily limited to translations who could conceive of him 
producing such a bright and sparkling story, thoroughly realistic, full of vitalizing 
power, keen analysis, and depth of study and reflection, brilliantly imaginative, 
and showing an elasticity in its creative process which cannot fail to attract every 
lover of a higher and better art in fiction. 

But light and delicate as Balzac’s touch generally is throughout this volume, 
there is also shown a slumbering force which occasionally awakens and delivers a 
blow that seems as if it had been struck by the hammer of Thor. He ranges over 
the whole scale of human passion and emotion, penetrates into the very inmost 
chambers of the heart, apprehends its movements, and lays bare its weakness 
with a firm and yet delicate touch of his scalpel. The book has been excellently 
translated by Miss Wormeley She is fully in sympathy with the author, and has 
k caught his spirit, and the result is a translation which preserves the full flavor, 
vigor, and delicacy of the original. 


One handsome 12mo volume , uniform with “ Pcre Goriot “ The 
Duchesse de Lan^eais 11 Cesar Birotteau'•'‘Eugenie Grandet ,” 
“ Cousin Pons," “ The Country Doctor “ The Two Brothers ,” and 
“ The Alkahest." Half morocco, French style. Price , #1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 






BALZAC IN ENGLISH 


LOUIS LAMBERT. 


“As for Balzac,” writes Oscar Wilde, “he was a most remarkable combination 
of the artistic temperament with the scientific spirit.” It is his artistic tempera¬ 
ment which reveals itself the most clearly in the novel before us. As we read 
“ Louis Lambert,” we feel convinced that it is largely autobiographical. It is a 
psychical study as delicate as Amiel’s Journal, and nearly as spiritual. We follow 
the life of the sensitive, poetical schoolboy, feeling that it is a true picture of Bal 
zac’s own youth. When the literary work on which the hero had written for years 
in all his spare moments is destroyed, we do not need to be told by Mr. Parsons 
that this is an episode in Balzac’s own experience ; we are sure of this fact already; 
and no writer could describe so sympathetically the deep spiritual experiences of 
an aspiring soul who had not at heart felt them keenly. No materialist could have 
written “ Louis Lambert.” — Boston Transcript. 

Of all of Balzac’s works thus far translated by Miss Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 
the last in the series, “ Louis Lambert,” is the most difficult of comprehension. 
It is the second of the author’s Philosophical Studies, “The Magic Skin” being 
tiie first, and “ Seraphita,” shortly to be published, being the third and last. In 
“Louis Lambert” Balzac has presented a study of a noble soul—a spirit of 
exalted and lofty aspirations which chafes under the fetters of earthly existence, 
and has no sympathy with the world of materialism. This pure-souled genius is 
made the medium, moreover, for the enunciation of the outlines of a system of 
philosophy which goes to the very roots of Oriental occultism and mysticism as its 
source, and which thus reveals the marvellous scope of Balzac’s learning. The 
scholarly introduction to the book by George Frederic Parsons, in addition to 
throwing a great deal of valuable light upon other phases of the work, shows how 
many of the most recent scientific theories are directly in line with the doctrines 
broadly set forth by Balzac nearly sixty years ago. The book is one to be studied 
rather than read ; and it is made intelligible by the extremely able introduction 
and by Miss Wormeley’s excellent translation.— The Book-Buyer■ 

“ Louis Lambert,” with the two other members of the Trilogy, “ La Peau de 
Chagrin” and “Seraphita,” is a book which presents many difficulties to the 
student. It deals with profound and unfamiliar subjects, and the meaning of the 
author by no means lies on the surface. It is the study of a great, aspiring soul 
enshrined in a feeble body, the sword wearing out the scabbard, the spirit soaring 
away from its prison-house of flesh to its more congenial home. It is in marked 
contrast to the study of the destructive and debasing process which we see in the 
“ Peau de Chagrin.” It stands midway between this study of the mean and base 
and that noble presentation of the final evolution of a soul on the very borders of 
Divinity which Balzac gives us in “ Seraphita.” 

The reader not accustomed to such high ponderings needs a guide to place him 
en rapport with the Seer. Such a guide and friend he finds in Mr. Parsons, 
whose introduction of one hundred and fifty pages is by no means the least valu¬ 
able part of this volume. It is impossible to do more than sketch the analysis of 
Balzac’s philosophy and the demonstration so successfully attempted by Mr. Par¬ 
sons of the exact correlation between many of Balzac’s speculations and the 
newest scientific theories. The introduction is so closely written that it defies 
much condensation. It is so intrinsically valuable that it will thoroughly repay 
careful and minute study. — Front “Light” a Londoti Journal of Psychical and. 
Occult Research , March 9,1889. 

-♦- 

One handsome 12 mo volume, uniform with “ Plre Goriotf “ The 
Duchesse de Langeais ,” “ Cesar Birotteauf “ Eugenie Grandetf 
“ Cousin Pons," “ The Country Doctor “ The Two Brothers ,” “ The 
Alkahest “ Modeste Mignon “ The Magic Skinf “Cousin Bette." 
Bound in half morocco, French Style. Price, £1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston 





BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


-♦- 

SONS OF THE SOIL. 

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 


Many critics have regarded “ Les Paysans,” to which Miss Wormeley, 
in her admirable translation, has given the title “ Sons of the Soil,” as one 
of Balzac’s strongest novels ; and it cannot fail to impress those who read 
this English rendering of it. Fifty or sixty years ago Balzac made a pro¬ 
found study of the effects produced by the Revolution upon the peasants 
of the remote provinces of France, and he has here elaborated these obser¬ 
vations in a powerful picture of one of those strange, disguised, but fero¬ 
cious social wars which were at the time not only rendered possible, but 
promoted by three potent influences, namely, the selfishness of the rich 
landholders; the land-hunger and stimulated greed of the peasants; and 
the calculated rapacity of middle-class capitalists, craftily using the hatreds 
of the poor to forward their own plots. The first part of *‘Les Paysans” 
(and the only part which w..s published during the author’s life) appeared 
under a title taken from an old and deeply significant proverb, Qui a terre 
a guerre, —“ Who has land has war.” 

It is the account of a guerilla war conducted by a whole country-side 
against one great land-owner,—a war in which, moreover, the lawless 
aggressions of the peasantry are prompted, supported, and directed by an 
amazing alliance between the richest, most unscrupulons, and most power 
ful of the neighboring provincial magnates, who, by controlling, through 
family council, the local administration, are in a position to paralyze resist 
ance to their conspiracy. The working out of this deep plot affords thi, 
author opportunity for the introduction of a whole gallery of marvellom 
studies. 

It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that this powerful and absorbing 
story is lifted above the level of romance by the unequalled artistic genius 
of the author, and that it is at times almost transformed into a profound 
political study by the depth and acumen of his suggestions and comments. 
Nor should it be requisite to point out analogies with territorial conditions 
in more than one other country, which lend to “Les Paysans ” a special 
interest and significance, and are likely to prevent it from becoming obsolete 
for a long time to come. Of the translation it only need be said that it is 
as good as Miss Wormeley has accustomed us to expect, and that means 
the best rendering of French into English that has ever been done.— 
New York Tribune. 


Handsome 12mo volume, bound in half Russia. Price, 
$1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers , 

BOSTON, MASS. 





BALZAC IN ENGLISH . 

—«— 

Fame and Sorrow, 

<©tj)Er Storks. 

TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 

i2mo. Half Russia. Uniform with our edition of Balzac’s 
Works. Price, $1.50. In addition to this remarkable story, 
the volume contains the following, namely: “Colonel Chabert,” 
“ The Atheist’s Mass,” “ La Grande Breteche,” “ The Purse,” and 
“ La Grenacliere.” 

The force and passion of the stories of Balzac are unapproachable. He had 
the art of putting into half a dozen pages all the fire and stress which many 
writers, who are still great, cannot compass in a volume. The present volume is 
an admirable collection, and presents well his power of handling the short story. 
That the translation is excellent need hardly be said — Boston Courier. 

The six stories, admirably translated by Miss Wormeley, afford good examples 
of Balzac’s work in what not a few critics have thought his chief specialty. It is 
certain that no writer of many novels wrote so many short stories as he ; and it is 
equally as certain that his short stories are, almost without an exception, models 
of what such compositions ought to be. . . No modern author, however, of any 
school whatever, has succeeded in producing short stories half so good as Balzac’s 
best. Balzac did not, indeed, attempt to display his subtility and deftness by 
writing short stories about nothing. Every one of his tales contains an episode, 
not necessarily, but usually, a dramatic episode The first in the present collec¬ 
tion, better known as “ La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote,” is really a short novel. 
It has all the machinery, all the interest, all the detail of a regular story. The 
difference is that it is compressed as Balzac only could compress; that here and 
there important events, changes, etc., are indicated in a few powerful lines instead 
of being elaborated; that the vital points are thrown into strong relief. Take the 
pathetic story of “ Colonel Chabert ” It begins with an elaboration of detail. 
The description of the lawyer’s office might seem to some too minute. But it is 
the stage upon which the Colonel is to appear, and when he enters we see the 
value of the preliminaries, for a picture is presented which the memory seizes and 
holds. As the action progresses, detail is used more parsimoniously, because tlio 
mise-en-scene has already been completed, and because, also, the characters once 
clearly described, the development of character and the working of passion can 
be indicated with a few pregnant strokes. Notwithstanding this increasing 
economy of space, the action takes on a swifter intensity, and the culmination or 
the tragedy leaves the reader breathless 

In “The Atheist’s Mass” we have quite a new kind of story This is rather 
a psychological study than a narrative of action. Two widely distinguished char¬ 
acters are thrown on the canvas here, — that of the great surgeon and that of the 
humble patron; and one knows not which most to admire, the vigor of the 
drawing, or the subtle and lucid psychical analysis. In both there is rare beauty of 
soul, and perhaps, after all, the poor Auvergnat surpasses the eminent surgeon, 
though this is a delicate and difficult question. But how complete the little story 
is; how much it tells ; with what skill, and in how delightful a manner ! Then 
there is that tremendous haunting legend of “ La Grande Breteche,” a story which 
has always been turned into more languages and twisted into more new forms than 
almost any othfer of its kind extant. What author has equalled the continuing 
horror of that unfaithful wife’s agony, compelled to look on and assist at the slow 
murder of her entrapped lover? . . Then the death of the husband and wife, — 
the one by quick and fiercer dissipation, the other by simple refusal to live longer, 
— and the abandonment of the accursed dwelling to solitude and decay, complete 
a picture, which for vividness, emotional force, imaginative power, and compre¬ 
hensiveness of effects, can be said to have few equals in its own class of fiction. — 
Kansas City Journal. 


Sold by all booksellers. Mailed , postpaid, on receipt of price, by 
the publishers, 

lo 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 








































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